:abbi  Isadore  Isaacson 


2     r. 


But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting  place  ?    Page  65. 


(From  Painting  by  Iy.  Stuertz.) 


THE  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


Immortal  Hope 

THE  WITNESS  OF 
THE  GREAT  POETS 
OF  ALL  AGES  TO 
THE  LIFE  BEYOND 


COMPILED  BY 


M.  C.  HAZARD,  PH.  D. 

II 

WITH    A*N    INTRODUCTION  W 

NEWELL   DWIGHT  HILLIS 


WITH  SIXTEEN  FULL  PAGE  HALF-TONE 
ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  THE  ORIGINAL 
PAINTINGS  BY  CELEBRATED  ARTISTS 


A.  L  BURT  COMPANY,      ^      #      & 
PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


Copyright  1906 
ByA.  L.  BURTCOMPANY 


'  TfiB*  IMMORTAL 
Compiled  by  *M.  C.  Hazard 


A  AC  £  0  A/ 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

Who  is  in  Heaven 


Ititaiitartum. 


Among  earth's  wisest  teachers,  we  give  the 
first  place  to  the  poets.  'These  are  the  men  of 
vision,  who  see  the  open  rift  in  the  sky:  who 
hear  and  understand  the  voices  that  fall  over  the 
heavenly  battlements.  And  who,  when  the  clouds 
stand  upon  the  horizon,  pierce  through  the  dark- 
ness, and  show  us  the  sweet  fields  that  lie  be- 
yond. In  all  ages,  the  poet  has  been  the  true 
consoler  and  guide,  and  teacher.  He  is  not  sim- 
ply the  interpreter  of  the  beautiful,  he  is  also 
the  prophet  of  the  eternal,  and  the  herald  of  an 
invisible  friend.  It  is  given  to  the  soldier  to 
protect  the  people,  the  teacher  instructs  the  state, 
the  statesman  guides  the  state.  But  the  poet  in- 
spires us,  stays  our  faith,  and  gives  the  clue  out 
of  the  maze.  What  the  philosopher  cannot  do, 
the  poet,  with  his  song  and  parable,  has  easily 
accomplished.  The  world  owes  much  to  Moses 
for  his  laws,  but  not  less  for  his  psalm  of  the 
brevity  of  life,  the  eternity  of  God,  and  the  cer- 
tainty of  the  realm  that  lies  just  beyond  the  stars. 
Welcome,  indeed,  therefore,  this  volume  that 
binds  together  the  great  songs  of  the  greatest 
xi 


•ffntro&uctfon. 


singers  of  the  great  hope — the  hope  of  the  life 
immortal. 

Just  now  the  whole  world  is  confessing  a  new 
interest  in  immortality.  The  old  material  science 
has  lost  its  grip.  The  pendulum  is  swinging  to- 
ward idealism.  And  once  more  our  best  think- 
ers are  writing  on  immortality.  Men  have 
learned  that  thoughts  are  as  substantial  as  things. 
That  prayers  are  as  real  as  paving  stones.  And 
if  reason  has  questioned,  the  heart  of  the  poet 
and  the  mystic  whispers,  "Hope,  and  have  faith 
in  God."  Once  more  the  world  is  celebrating  the 
festival  of  the  soul.  The  individual  is  being  capi- 
talized. At  last  events  have  compelled  the  recog- 
nition that  the  grave,  hitherto  digged  for  other 
feet,  may  soon  be  digged,  not  for  others,  but  for 
us.  The  mystery,  the  pathos,  the  tragedy  and 
the  glory  of  this  momentous  event,  named  death, 
is  that  the  messengers  of  release  and  convoy  may 
even  now  be  a- wing  on  their  journey  for  us.  The 
wise  reflections  of  the  good  and  great  upon  the 
brevity  of  life  also  enhance  and  intensify  our  per- 
sonal relation  to  immortality.  So  rich  is  our  world, 
so  wondrous  are  the  intellectual  fields  where  rea- 
son may  gather  her  sheaves,  so  sparkling  are  the 
treasures  of  friendship,  so  beautiful  the  banks 
of  clouds  in  which  the  sun  sinks  to  rest,  so  mar- 
velous and  fascinating  the  ruins  of  the  old  cities, 
where  other  people  had  their  beginning,  so  swift 
is  the  progress  and  upward  growth  of  our  city 
and  our  republic,  so  vast  are  the  problems  of 
xii 


Introduction. 

the  poor,  inviting  our  help  to  solve  them,  that  the 
very  thought  of  leaving  this  world  after  so  brief 
a  sojourn,  brims  the  eyes  with  tears  and  eclipses, 
for  the  moment,  every  joy.  Verily,  art  and 
growth  are  long,  and  life  is  short.  All  too  short 
the  time  for  that  prince  of  Israel,  "the  days  of 
the  years  of  my  pilgrimage  have  been  few  and 
evil."  All  too  short  also  the  years  of  Moses, 
the  sage.  "The  years  are  heavy  upon  me,  so  that 
I  can  no  longer  go  out  or  come  in."  For  earth's 
wisest  men  also  the  weight  of  sixty  years  became 
a  weight  unendurable,  for,  lo,  "the  grasshopper 
is  a  burden,  and  desire  hath  failed,  and  man  go- 
eth  to  his  long  home."  For  the  scholar,  for  the 
soldier,  for  the  courtier,  for  the  merchant  and 
jurist,  "the  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave." 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  slow  movement  of  a 
vast  glacier,  flowing  as  a  river  of  ice,  down  from 
the  mountains  of  God?  Then,  if  not,  take  your 
stand  on  the  prow  of  the  boat,  and  behold  the 
Muir  Glacier  of  snow  and  ice.  Watch  this  vast 
river  of  snow  and  ice,  as  it  moves,  crowded 
slowly  forward  by  the  vast  masses  of  snow  fall- 
ing from  the  heights,  at  the  one  end,  while  at  the 
other,  with  boom  like  unto  the  boom  of  cannon, 
the  icebergs  break  off,  and  go  floating  out  to  sea, 
attended  by  white  mists  and  clouds,  that  wave 
their  plumes  with  the  angels  of  God.  And  then 
you  will  understand  with  what  awe  and  fascina- 
tion, joy  and  tears,  we  see  the  multitudes  com- 
ing in,  and  in  death,  going  out,  to  be  seen  no 
xiii 


Introduction. 

more  forever !  Verily,  these  fields  are  white  unto 
the  harvest!  When  that  foreign  army  invaded 
Greece,  it  passed  by  many  villages,  and  marched 
straight  toward  Athens,  to  sack  the  city  of  its 
treasures  of  art  and  beauty.  What  if  the  ruler 
of  Athens,  beholding  their  coming  had  said, 
"This  is  the  tribute  that  an  enemy  pays  to  our 
accumulated  treasures.  Spoiling  our  Parthenon 
of  its  marbles,  they  would  get  the  treasures  up 
to  enrich  other  cities.  The  beauty  disappears 
from  our  midst,  but  it  does  not  perish."  So 
comes  death  last.  Our  world  has  been  dear  unto 
God's  angels  of  death.  In  retrospect  I  know 
what  God  thinks  of  His  saints  here  made  meet 
for  heaven. 

We  are  quite  sure 
That  He  will  give  them  back, 

Bright,  pure  and  beautiful; 
We  know  that  He  will  but  keep 
Our  own  and  His  until  we  fall  asleep ; 
We  know  that  He  does  not  mean 
To  break  the  strands  reaching  between 

The  Here  and  There; 
He  does  not  mean,  though  heaven  be  fair, 
To  change  the  spirits  entering  there, 

That  they   forget. 

— Pg.  191- 

The  Ground  of         In  all  ages  the  philosophers 

Immortality.       have  loved  to  pass  in  review 

the  arguments  for  immortality.  They  have  made 

much  of  the  universality  of  the  hope.     Of  the 

xiv 


UntroDuctioru 

fact  that  the  instinct  for  immortality  is  all  but 
inexpugnable,  much  also  of  the  analogies  in  na- 
ture, based  upon  the  death  of  the  seed  that  the 
plant  may  live,  the  falling  of  the  flower  that  the 
fruit  may  swell,  the  rending  of  the  chrysalis  that 
the  butterfly  may  spread  its  glorious  wings,  the 
flight  of  the  bird  through  the  pathless  air  toward 
the  far-off  tropic  land.  All  these  arguments  are 
full  of  meaning,  all  are  valid,  all  carry  comfort, 
and  all  are  rich  in  suggestion.  But,  in  the  nature 
of  the  case,  we  cannot  realize  what  it  is  to  stand  in 
another  continent  until  we  arrive  there.  The  ar- 
guments of  Columbus  may  be  sound,  and  his 
descriptions  of  the  newly-discovered  continent 
may  be  clear  and  accurate,  but  his  hearer  can 
never  realize  that  vast  new  world  beyond  the 
seas,  until  he  sails  away  into  the  great  West, 
and  for  himself  steps  foot  upon  the  shores 
hitherto  unexplored.  Great  is  the  hunger  of 
man's  reason  and  heart  for  immortality.  But 
that  immortality  rests  not  upon  a  desire  in  man, 
but  upon  the  purpose  and  will  of  God.  The  wis- 
dom of  Jesus  taught  us  that  because  "God  lives 
— man  shall  live  also."  Oh,  the  wondrous 
words!  telling  us  that  God  is  eternal  and 
that  the  man  who  possesses  God-like  quali- 
ties is  therefore  immortal  also.  Close  study 
of  the  events  of  nature  compels  the  reflection, 
that  God  represents  power  in  storms,  goodness 
in  harvest,  beauty  in  faces  and  landscapes;  rep- 
resents also  truth  and  justice,  mercy  and  love. 
xv 


Introduction. 

Is  there  a  man,  then,  who,  travelling  across  the 
years,  has  gathered  unto  himself  power,  justice, 
goodness,  the  love  of  truth,  mercy,  pity,  love, 
such  an  one  has  those  attributes  that  in  God  are 
eternal,  and,  lo,  these  qualities,  under  the  touch 
of  God's  love,  have  clothed  him  with  immortality. 
For  the  healthy  mind  it  is  inconceivable  that 
God  could  have  lent  this  divine  treasure  to 
the  soul  of  a  great  man,  named  Paul,  or  Moses, 
or  Lincoln,  only  to  destroy  that  soul  after  a  few 
brief  summers  and  winters!  Surely,  there  must 
be  some  proportion  between  the  endowments  and 
the  field  of  action.  The  great  redwood  trees  of 
California  cannot  think,  nor  weep,  nor  laugh,  nor 
love,  yet  they  began  their  growth  before  that 
sepulcher  was  digged  near  the  Mount  of  Olives. 
Near  Rome,  there  is  an  old  olive  tree  that  has 
been  mentioned  in  Italian  literature  and  Latin 
for  1,400  years,  and  it  is  believed  to  antedate  the 
poet  Horace.  To  the  white  elephants  of  Siam, 
God  gives  a  career  of  150  years.  There  are 
beeches  near  Hampton  Court,  under  which  chil- 
dren have  played,  and  kings  and  queens  have 
lived  and  died,  for  five  hundred  years.  But 
while  the  oak  lives  on,  fifteen  generations  of  men 
and  women  have  risen  and  passed  away  again. 
One  of  the  German  scientists  speaks  of  "the  se- 
curity of  the  insignificant  animalculse."  He  tells 
us  that  because  they  are  so  small,  they  are  prac- 
tically free  from  eternal  catastrophe,  and  there- 
fore, are  practically  immortal.  Science  teaches 
xvi 


Introduction. 

us  that  death  is  not  a  necessity  of  organic  func- 
tions on  the  inside.  It  is  the  result  of  a  catas- 
trophe in  the  environment  on  the  outside.  For 
that  reason,  plant  your  redwood  tree  in  the  hid- 
den glade,  and  the  functions  of  life  will  go  on 
for  thousands  of  years.  The  tree  is  practically 
immortal,  but  for  the  external  catastrophes  of 
lightning,  the  axes,  and  bore  worms.  For  man 
— death  is  not  a  necessity  of  the  vital  functions 
of  the  body  within.  It  is  the  outgrowth  and  ne- 
cessity of  our  circumstances  and  environment 
without.  Has  God  made  trees  to  live  for  thou- 
sands of  years  and  lent  "security  to  insignificant 
animalculse,"  and  denied  it  to  man  made  in  His 
image  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows? — 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

— Pg-  234. 

Man's  Greatness  Does    God    store    the 

Argues  Immortality.  SOul  like  a  vast  mansion, 
only  to  destroy  it  as  soon  as  stored?  Some  great 
castle  or  manor  house  in  England  holds  portraits 
of  a  hundred  ancestors  on  the  walls  of  the  gal- 
lery. Here,  too,  are  old  swords  and  medals,  won 
on  many  a  battlefield.  Here  are  old  manuscripts 
giving  the  history  of  the  family.  The  present 
xvii 


UntroCmction. 

owner  of  the  castle  dwells  under  a  sacred  spell. 
His  fathers  have  made  vows  for  him.  These  an- 
cestors have  stored  up  great  treasures  in  his 
body.  Will  the  man  lift  up  a  firebrand  upon-  the 
castle  and  destroy  the  treasured  past?  This  is 
the  act  of  vandalism.  Firebrand  and  the  dyna- 
mite are  for  cowards,  not  heroes.  And  has  God 
stored  the  soul  with  this  picture  gallery  of  imagi- 
nation, this  library  for  reason,  these  halls  of 
memory,  these  marvelous  chambers  where  love 
and  faith  and  conscience  have  their  homes,  only 
to  destroy  it  after  thirty-five  summers  and  win- 
ters? Does  God  assemble  the  memories,  the  in- 
stincts and  intuitions  of  a  thousand  generations, 
only  to  have  them  all  march  with  you  into  a  black 
hole  in  the  ground  ?  Did  God  make  Paul  as  food 
for  a  headman's  axe?  Mozart  writes  his  few 
great  songs  and  then  death  breaks  the  singer's 
harp.  The  great  artist  lifts  his  brush  to  the  can- 
vas, paints  a  few  pictures  that  are  now  the  rich- 
est possession  of  some  Florence  or  Dresden,  and 
then,  just  at  the  beginning  of  his  career,  the 
brush  falls  from  his  hand  forever.  Oh,  the  early 
death  of  the  gifted  young!  It  is  unexplainable, 
save  on  the  hypothesis  that  God  needs  them  for 
higher  works.  A  great  genius  represents  an  in- 
dividual possession.  After  a  book  is  printed,  if 
you  burn  one  volume,  the  others  are  safe.  In 
the  coral  islands,  if  one  insect  architect  dies,  the 
others  build  on.  Injure  many  trees  in  the  for- 
est, and  the  oak  is  still  safe.  An  army  gets  its 
xviii 


fntrofcuction. 

meaning  out  of  the  multitude,  and  if  some  fall, 
the  rest  march  on  to  victory.  The  hive  gets  its 
meaning  from  the  many,  but  the  great  man,  Lin- 
coln, Hallam,  Keats,  is  unique.  It  is  the  one 
thing  of  its  kind  in  the  universe.  If  death  sweeps 
it  into  a  hole  in  the  waving  grass,  then  the  one 
thing  that  makes  this  universe  worth  while  has 
been  destroyed.  Do  you  say  that  the  soul  of 
man  has  the  qualities  of  God?  And  the  "arena 
of  an  insect"  ?  Who  art  thou,  that  thou  chargest 
folly  upon  God?  Let  him  believe  it  who  will 
— I  scorn  it!  God  is  Our  Father.  Men  are 
broken-hearted  over  their  prodigal  sons.  Though 
the  boy  wander  far,  though  he  blast  every  hope, 
though  he  wreck  every  plan,  though  every  door 
is  turned  against  him,  there  is  one  heart  that 
aches  for  him,  and  longs  for  his  return — his 
father's.  Until  the  boy  comes  home,  the  house 
is  empty.  And  reverently  I  say  it,  God,  the  In- 
finite Father,  is  homesick  for  His  earthly  chil- 
dren. His  heart  aches  until  they  come  home. 
Through  the  storm  and  the  night,  He  is  abroad, 
seeking  for  them.  He  will  not  be  satisfied  until 
He  brings  them  in.  Their  bodies  fall  like  the 
leaves,  but  they  do  not  die  for  God;  there  are 
no  sailors  in  the  depths  of  the  sea,  no  pioneers 
forgotten  in  the  forest,  no  falling  statesmen,  no 
dying  mothers,  no  little  children  held  in  tombs. 
Unto  God  all  live.  Presidents  rule  over  eighty 
million  of  living  and  loving  and  enterprising 
men.  Think  you  God  is  a  king  who  stretches 
xix 


•ffntto&uction. 

a  sceptre  over  graveyards,  and  whose  only  sub- 
jects are  bones  and  skeletons?  For  God  there 
is  no  death.  But  that  event  called  death  is  a  lit- 
tle incident  and  a  trifling  episode,  a  brief  mo- 
ment, when  the  soul  slips  out  of  the  bodily  gar- 
ment, that  it  may  wear  brighter,  lighter,  and 
more  radiant  robes. 

Let  me  keep  on,  abiding  and  unfearing 

Thy  will  always, 
Through  a  long  century's  ripening  fruition, 

Or  a  short  day's; 
Thou  canst  not  come  too  soon ;  and  I  can  wait, 

If  thou  come  late. 

— Pg.  73- 

Man's  Growth  Foretells  The  very  way  in 
His  Immortality.  wnich  God  educates 
men  seems  to  be  a  foregleam  of  immortality.  This 
world  is  God's  workshop  and  school.  Events 
are  our  teachers.  Joy  and  sorrow  polish  the  soul 
into  shapeliness.  By  long  processes  we  go 
slowly  to  culture  and  character.  But  there  ought 
to  be  some  proportion  between  the  time  spent 
on  preparation  and  education,  and  the  time  spent 
on  work  and  enjoyment.  Even  human  edu- 
cators recognize  this  principle.  One  of  our  col- 
lege presidents  published  an  article  on  the  short- 
ening of  the  university  course.  In  part,  his 
views  approved  themselves  to  practical  men.  In 
view  of  the  fact  that  the  average  life  is  approxi- 
mately thirty-five  years,  the  period  of  education 
xx 


JO 


fntroDuctfon. 

and  the  period  of  work  must  be  proportionate, 
and  stand  in  a  normal  ratio.  First  of  all,  some 
six  years  of  education  through  the  parents  and 
the  home,  then  follow  ten  years  of  the  public 
schools,  at  1 6,  the  boy  enters  the  academy,  at  18, 
he  enters  the  college,  where  he  remains  for  four 
years.  At  22,  he  begins  another  four-years' 
course  in  the  halls  of  medicine,  or  law,  or  mor- 
als. Even  if  the  average  life  is  forty,  there  re- 
main only  fifteen  years  for  work,  and  the  use 
of  the  education.  But  character  is  a  diploma 
that  God  gives  only  after  the  full  forty  years. 
Some  men  and  women  He  keeps  at  school  until 
they  are  70  and  80,  but  He  keeps  them  at  school 
by  many  a  hard  task,  by  many  a  fiery  pain,  by 
light  shades  and  by  dark  shades,  with  a  stroke 
here  and  a  stroke  there;  by  health  and  by  sick- 
ness, by  victory  and  by  defeat,  by  storms  and  by 
the  bow  of  hope  in  the  clouds,  by  wealth  and  also 
by  the  flight  of  riches;  by  honors  and  the  dis- 
solution thereof,  He  drills  and  educates  men  for 
that  ripe  stage  called  the  character.  There  is 
not  one  day  of  vacation.  There  are  no  long  sum- 
mers when  God's  pupil  can  for  months  leave  the 
school.  It  is  one  long  drill,  with  God's  appointed 
teachers,  named  work,  industry,  temptation, 
prayer,  love,  grief,  death.  But  if  the  life  ends 
with  the  schooling,  surely  some  great  error  has 
been  made.  Drill  looks  toward  an  end.  Prep- 
aration implies  continuance.  The  professional 
course  argues  a  long  career  of  practice  and  en- 
xxi 


<U3 


JO 


Untro&uctfon. 

joyment,  an  apprenticeship  means  promotion. 
Are  artist  masters  wise  when  they  graduate 
their  pupil  into  independence  and  a  long  career 
in  Painting,  and  does  God  graduate  His  pupils 
into — Greenwood?  This  turns  all  life  into  a 
snare.  Surely,  God  does  not  feed  men  on  empty 
husks  and  bubbles.  This  is  a  school  room,  and 
when  the  task  is  done,  we  return  home,  to  the 
long  eternal  years.  Some  day  we  shall  put  away 
our  task  and  close  our  books.  Like  those  boys 
who  have  been  away  to  school,  come  home  for 
the  holidays,  to  fill  all  the  halls  with  eager 
shouts,  and  brim  the  mother's  eyes  with  happy 
tears,  and  make  their  father's  heart  to  almost 
break  with  pride  in  his  sons  and  daughters,  so 
we  shall  come  home  after  our  schooling  is  done, 
and  be  satisfied  and  find  our  beloved  dead ! 

And  yet  that  same  word  ONCE 
Is  humanly  acceptive!     Kings  have  said, 

Shaking  a  discrowned  head, 

"We  ruled  once," — dotards,  "We  once  taught  and  led," 
Cripples  once  danced  i'  the  vines — and  bards  approved, 

Were  once  by  scornings  moved: 
But  love  strikes  one  hour — LOVE.    Those  never  loved, 

Who  dream  that  they  loved  ONCE. 

— Pg.  203. 


Man's   Great   Past  For  deeply  reflec- 

Argues  a  Great  Future,  tive  minds,  man's 
great  past  argues  his  long,  immortal  future.  In 
this  era  of  physical  science,  our  scholars  are  now 
chiefly  interested  in  the  rise  of  the  intellect,  and 
xxii 


70 


Introduction, 


the  evolution  of  the  faculties  of  the  reason.  The 
time  was  when  they  held  that  the  great  intuitions 
represented  the  result  of  a  creative  fiat.  Man 
has  certain  intuitions  of  space,  and  of  time,  and 
certain  mathematical  principles  are  axioms.  These 
principles  are  so  inwrought  into  the  fibre  of  the 
soul,  that  we  cannot  conceive  of  their  being  other- 
wise. Little  by  little  scholars  have  traced  the 
history  of  these  instincts.  Wordsworth  thought 
that  perhaps  they  represented  a  pre-existence,  in 
that  "man  comes  trailing  clouds  of  glory.  Not 
in  utter  nakedness,  not  in  entire  forgetfulness," 
does  man  come.  Grown  accustomed  to  this 
physical  world,  the  rich,  heavenly  memories  soon 
fade  away ;  the  shades  of  the  prison  house  close 
in  about  the  boy,  and  gross  temptations  make  him 
forget  the  glories  of  that  imperial  palace  whence 
he  came,  the  splendors  there,  on  happy  hills  of 
God,  that  once  he  knew,  but  now,  are  all  but  for- 
gotten. These  are  the  glorious  thoughts  of  the 
old  poets,  that  are  true,  but  with  a  different  phi- 
losophy. With  larger  study,  has  come  the  wiser 
conclusion,  namely,  that  the  instincts  are  ances- 
tral memories,  that  the  intuitions  are  the  con- 
densed recollections  of  long  generations,  regis- 
tered, preserved,  and  handed  forward  for  us. 
By  long  study  and  habitual  practice  the  worker's 
hand  performs  certain  feats  automatically.  And 
by  practice  and  long  time,  man  has  his  mental 
traits.  Could  we  stand,  therefore,  in  the  aisle 
of  man's  soul,  and  listen — oh,  what  thousand- 
xxiii 


I 


fold  whispers  would  we  hear.  As  if  ten  thou- 
sand streams  and  rivulets  were  flowing  down 
from  ancestral  hills,  to  make  up  that  great  river 
of  intellect  called  the  human  soul.  To  what  end 
was  this  task  accumulated?  Plainly,  for  a  great 
future.  Yesterdays,  so  many  and  so  rich,  im- 
ply to-morrows,  equally  numerous,  and  no  less 
rich.  Ten  thousand  years  to  develop  your  in- 
tuitions, your  instincts,  your  heart-hungers  for 
righteousness  and  purity,  and  prayer,  and  self- 
sacrifice,  imply  ten  thousand  years  for  your  con- 
tinuance, and  the  full  development  and  exhibit 
and  use  of  your  treasure.  It  is  this  great  past 
that  prophesies  the  immortal  to-morrow.  It  is 
this  immortal  hope  that  consecrates  to-day's  tool 
and  task.  The  setting  sun  pours  a  flood  of  splen- 
dor over  humble  objects — the  fallen  log,  the  rail 
fence,  the  humble  cot — and  the  soul  stands  in  the 
foregleam  and  anticipatory  glow  of  an  immortal 
day.  God,  who  made  the  sun  to  disappear  in 
a  rich  bank  of  clouds,  that  it  may  rise  again  in 
the  morning,  makes  the  soul  to  sink  into  the  arms 
of  death,  to  disappear  from  sight,  but  not  to  pass 
away.  The  great  sun  to-day  lifts  frpm  the  sea 
the  white  mists  and  the  land  sheds  its  vapors 
that  rise  like  white  clouds  and  incense  unto  the 
throne  of  God.  And  thus,  the  poet  says,  our 
earth  sheds  its  whitest  souls  into  the  air  and 
our  noblest  spirits  rise  heavenward,  unto  Him 
who  dwells  above  the  stars,  where  is  Our  Fa- 

xxiv 


ITntro&uctiotu 

ther's    house,   the    many   mansions,   and   where 
dwell  the  apostles  and  heroes  and  martyrs. 

0  angel  of  the  land  of  peace! 
When  wilt  thou  ever  come  for  me? 

1  fain  would  be  where  sorrows  cease; 
I  dread  no  more  thy  kind  release; 

I  wait  for  thee! 

-Pg.  48. 

Science  the  Prophet  Physical  science,  also, 
of  Immortality.  has  become  a  prophet  of 
immortality.  How  fascinating  those  volumes, 
"The  Soul's  Survival  of  Bodily  Death."  Here 
and  now  it  is  enough  to  say  that  their  author 
deserves  unbounded  praise  for  his  contribution. 
Mr.  Myers'  poem  on  St.  Paul  tells  us  that  had 
he  practiced  verse  he  might  have  been  a  great 
poet.  His  essays  tell  us  that  had  he  given  him- 
self to  literature  he  might  have  been  a  great 
writer.  His  studies  in  mental  science  tell  us  that 
he  could  have  achieved  great  fame  as  an  ana- 
lytical student;  but  Professor  Myers  gave  him- 
self for  thirty  years  to  the  problems  of  the  mind, 
and  for  that  form  of  mind  which  is  generally 
called  abnormal  and  provokes  severe  criticism, 
and  induces  much  misunderstanding.  In  the  sec- 
ond volume  of  these  great  books,  in  which  Pro- 
fessor Myers  seems  to  me  to  have  established  his 
argument,  he  says  that  but  for  the  study  of  phys- 
ical science  and  for  investigations  into  the  realm 
that  he  has  been  studying  that  a  hundred  years 
xxv 


TO 


fTntroOuctfon. 

from  now  no  man  might  have  believed  in  im- 
mortality, but  that  because  of  these  investigations 
a  hundred  years  from  now,  there  will  be  no  sci- 
entist of  any  standing  who  does  not  believe  that 
the  soul  survives  bodily  death.  From  every 
quarter,  therefore,  the  arguments  come  troop- 
ing in.  The  proofs  are  cumulative.  All  the 
facts  march — and  they  all  march  one  way — to- 
ward immortality.  Poetry  has  its  prophecies. 
Philosophy  moves  along  its  great  highway  of 
argument;  the  over-equipment  of  the  soul  hints 
the  preparation  for  the  immortal  life;  the  early 
death  of  the  young,  the  gifted  and  the  noblest 
tell  us  they  have  been  promoted  to  higher  tasks ; 
our  heroes,  slain  by  assassins'  bullets,  our  mar- 
tyrs, rising  in  chariots  of  fire,  our  reformers,  ex- 
iled and  hunted  over  the  hills,  our  teachers, 
poisoned  in  Athens,  our  missionaries,  beheaded 
in  Rome,  our  apostles,  crucified  in  Egypt  and 
Ethiopia — their  wrongs  shall  be  righted,  for  this 
is  a  moral  universe,  and  justice  shall  be  done. 
In  this  hope  they  lived — the  hope  of  immortality, 
and  in  this  faith  they  died,  without  a  fear  or  tear. 
God  tells  no  lies  to  the  birds,  to  whom  He  whis- 
pers through  instinct  that  if  they  will  leave  the 
storm  behind,  far  off  is  the  warm  tropic  land. 
Let  us  believe  also  that  beyond  these  voices,  there 
is  rest  and  peace.  That  God  hath  explained  their 
hard  problems ;  and  that  one  look  into  His  face, 
one  word  of  approval  from  His  lips,  hath  jus- 
tified the  long  years  of  perils  in  the  city,  and  per- 
xxvi 


Introduction. 

ils  in  the  wilderness  of  temptation,  and  sorrow 
and  struggle,  of  sacrifice,  and  death. 


Immortality   the   Very 
Genius  of  Life. 


After  long  years  of 
reflection,  and  much 

study,  some  of  us  have  found  the  rock.  Hope 
has  become  conviction,  conviction  has  become  cer- 
tainty, and  at  last  faith  is  a  winged  reason,  and 
a  form  of  glorified  intellect.  For  us  the  im- 
mortal hope  is  at  once  the  solace  and  the  glory 
of  daily  life,  and  but  for  this  outlook,  life  would 
be  all  but  unendurable.  Hours  there  are,  let  us 
confess  it,  when  life  for  some  is  scarcely  worth 
the  living.  The  statesman  plans  the  people's  good 
and  receives  criticism.  The  publicist  informs  the 
people,  and  a  single  sentence  is  torn  from  its  con- 
text and  turned  into  an  arrow,  and  winged  with 
fire  against  him.  For  generosity  the  merchant 
receives  ingratitude.  Oft,  too,  the  best  men  are 
cast  aside,  while  the  worst  climb  to  place  and  in- 
fluence. Utterly  tired  of  their  fellows,  worn  out 
inside  and  worn  out  outside,  an  overworked  pub- 
lic servant  often  feels  as  if  he  never  wants  to  see 
the  face  of  man  again,  and  would  like  to  seek 
a  dreamless  sleep.  Then  there  is  but  one  thing 
that  will  recover  his  soul  to  its  wonted  strength, 
equip  him  for  his  battle  on  the  morrow,  and  pour 
fresh  life  into  his  jaded  soul — the  immortal  hope. 
Hours  there  are  when  one  could  not  live,  but  for 
this  outlook  toward  the  stars,  and  but  for  that 
door  opened  into  heaven.  What  passionate  hun- 


Introduction, 


ger  for  wisdom,  with  no  time  for  quiet  study! 
What  hunger  of  the  eyes  for  beauty!  Oh,  for 
a  century  of  travel  in  the  summer,  into  the  great 
mountains!  and  a  century  for  travel  in  the  win- 
ter, into  the  great  tropic  lands !  What  ambitions 
to  serve  the  poor  and  weak!  Must  the  scholar 
close  his  books  forever?  Must  the  jurist  leave 
his  hall  and  bench  when  he  has  scarce  begun 
his  task?  Have  the  noble  spirits  with  their  zest 
for  righteousness  and  personal  holiness,  no  place 
of  satisfaction?  At  best,  what  a  little  cage  this 
world  is! 

The  keeper  of  the  zoological  garden  tells  us 
that  in  the  autumn  the  golden-crested  eagle 
stands  always  on  the  south  side  of  the  cage,  with 
its  head  between  the  bars,  straining  and  strain- 
ing toward  the  south.  That  when  the  spring 
is  again  upon  the  land,  and  the  south  wind  blows 
softly,  the  eagle  stands  always  looking  toward 
the  north.  With  its  head  between  the  bars  it 
strains  toward  the  land  where  coolness  hath  her 
hiding-places.  And  oft  the  soul  stands  expec- 
tant. Soon  the  signal  will  be  seen.  Then,  put- 
ting out  into  the  night,  and  the  storm,  we  shall 
sail  the  sea  with  God  alone,  in  the  triumphant 
faith  that  at  last  we  shall  drop  anchor  in  a  far- 
off  haven  of  happiness,  and  landing  on  the 
soul's  summer  land,  go  up  the  happy  hills  of 
God. 

NEWELL  DWIGHT  HILLIS. 

Brooklyn,  1905. 

xxviii 


.1 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting  place.     Frontispiece 

PAGE 
Look,  O  Jesus,  on  thy  soldiers,  worn  and  wounded 

in  the  fight 20 


Yet  how  he  prayed,  unaided  and  alone,  in  that  great 

agony,  ' '  Thy  will  be  done ! " 31 

Jesus  the  Nazarene  :  The  King,  the  Crucified 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  thou  shouldst  shed  full 

radiance  here 71 

Lead,   kindly   Light,    amid    the    encircling   gloom, 

lead  thou  me  on 78 

But  'tis  Jesus  who  has  called  them   "  Suffer,   and 

forbid  them  not. " 83 

One  who  bore  a  heavier  cross  for  thee 87 

"Come,  weary  souls,  for  Jesus  bids  you  come." 90 

The  hour  that  ends  all  earthly  woes,  and  gives  the 

wearied  soul  repose 127 

I  hear  a  still,  small  voice,  saying,  "Faint  not." 174 

I  think  that  the  Angels  have  found  her,  and 

begged  the  Good  Father  to  keep  her 209 

His  calm  Almighty  voice,   saying  "Awake! — weep 


OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

All  hail !  Redeemer  hail ! , 260 

The  Angels  ever  bear  some  newly  ransomed  soul 

on  high 272 

What  home  like  this  can  the  wide  earth  afford 278 


1. 


longings  for  Ibeavem 


/  weary  of  this  endless  strife  ; 

I  -weary  of  this  dying  life, 

This  living  death,  this  heavy  chain. 

This  torment  of  delay, 
In  which  her  sins  my  soul  detain. 
Ah,  when  shall  it  be  mine  ?  —  ah,  when  !  — 

With  my  last  breath  to  say, 
"  No  more  I  weep,  no  more  I  sigh  !  " 
I  '/#  dying  of  desire  to  die. 

—  St.  Teresa  of  Spain. 


ii 


Having  the  desire  to  depart  and  be  with  Christ;  for  it  is  very  far 
better.  —  Phil,  i  :  23. 

For  indeed  we  that  are  in  this  tabernacle  do  groan,  being  bur- 
dened; not  for  that  we  would  be  unclothed,  but  that  we  would  be 
clothed  upon,  that  what  is  mortal  may  be  swallowed  up  of  life.  — 
2  Cor.  3:4. 

We  are  of  good  courage,  I  say,  and  are  willing  rather  to  be  absent 
from  the  body,  and  to  be  at  home  with  the  Lord.  —  2  Cor.  3  :  8. 


12 


for  Ibeaveru 


JERUSALEM   THE   GOLDEN. 

JERUSALEM  the  golden  ! 
^      I  weary  for  one  gleam 
Of  all  thy  glory  folden 

In  distance  and  in  dream  ! 
My  thoughts,  like  palms  in  exile, 

Climb  up  to  look  and  pray 
For  a  glimpse  of  thy  dear  country 

That  lies  so  far  away  ! 

Jerusalem  the  golden  ! 

Methinks  each  flower  that  blows, 
And  every  bird  a-singing 

Of  thee  some  secret  knows ; 
I  know  not  what  the  flowers 

Can  feel,  or  singers  see ; 
But  all  these  summer  raptures 

Seem  prophecies  of  thee. 

Jerusalem  the  golden  ! 

When  sunset 's  in  the  west, 
It  seems  thy  gate  of  glory, 

Thou  city  of  the  blest ! 
And  midnight's  starry  torches 

Through  intermediate  gloom 
Are  waving  with  our  welcome 

To  thy  eternal  home  ! 


TO 


Cbe  fearless  ZanD. 

Jerusalem  the  golden ! 

Where  loftily  they  sing, 
O'er  pain  and  sorrow  olden 

Forever  triumphing ; 
Lowly  may  be  the  portal 

And  dark  may  be  the  door, 
The  mansion  is  immortal,  — 

God's  palace  for  his  poor ! 

Jerusalem  the  golden ! 

There  all  our  birds  that  flew,  — 
Our  flowers  but  half  unfolden, 

Our  pearls  that  turned  to  dew, 
And  all  the  glad  life-music, 

Now  heard  no  longer  here, 
Shall  come  again  to  greet  us 

As  we  are  drawing  near. 

Jerusalem  the  golden  ! 

I  toil  on  day  by  day ; 
Heart-sore  each  night  with  longing, 

I  stretch  my  hands  and  pray, 
That  'mid  thy  leaves  of  healing 

My  soul  may  find  her  nest ; 
Where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling  — 

The  weary  are  at  rest ! 
18700  —  Gerald  Masscy* 

HOW   LONG? 

MY  GOD,  it  is  not  fretfulness 
That  makes  me  say  "  How  long?" 
It  is  not  heaviness  of  heart 


for  1bea\?en. 


That  hinders  me  in  song  j 
T  is  not  despair  of  truth  and  right, 
Nor  coward  dread  of  wrong. 

But  how  can  I,  with  such  a  hope 

Of  glory  and  of  home, 
With  such  a  joy  before  my  eyes, 

Not  wish  the  time  were  come, 
Of  years  the  jubilee,  of  days 

The  Sabbath  and  the  sun  ? 

These  years,  what  ages  they  have  been  ! 

This  life,  how  long  it  seems  ! 
And  how  can  I,  in  evil  days, 

'Mid  unknown  hills  and  streams, 
But  sigh  for  those  of  home  and  heart, 

And  visit  them  in  dreams  ? 

Yet  peace,  my  heart  ;  and  hush,  my  tongue  ; 

Be  calm,  my  troubled  breast  ; 
Each  restless  hour  is  hastening  on 

The  everlasting  rest  ; 
Thou  knowest  that  the  time  thy  God 

Appoints  for  thee  is  best. 

Let  faith,  not  fear  nor  fretfulness, 

Awake  the  cry,  "  How  long?  " 
Let  no  faint-heartedness  of  soul 

Damp  thy  aspiring  song  : 
Right  comes,  truth  dawns,  the  night  departs 

Of  error  and  of  wrong. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


TO 


fearless  XanD. 


SWEET  place,  sweet  place  alone  ! 
The  court  of  God  most  High, 
The  Heaven  of  heavens'  throne, 
Of  spotless  majesty  ! 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

The  stranger  homeward  bends, 
And  fighteth  for  his  rest  : 
Heaven  is  my  home ;  my  friends 
Lodge  there  in  Abraham's  breast. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

Earth  's  but  a  sorry  tent 
Pitched  for  a  few  frail  days, 
A  short-leased  tenement ; 
Heaven 's  still  my  song,  my  praise. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

No  tears  from  any  eyes 
Drop  in  that  holy  choir ; 
But  Death  itself  there  dies, 
And  sighs  themselves  expire. 

16 


for  f>eaven, 


O  happy  place  ! 

When  shall  I  be, 

My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face? 

There  should  temptations  cease, 
My  frailties  there  should  end ; 
There  should  I  rest  in  peace 
In  the  arms  of  my  best  Friend. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

Jerusalem  on  high 
My  song  and  city  is, 
My  home  whene'er  I  die, 
The  center  of  my  bliss. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

Thy  walls,  sweet  city,  thine, 
With  pearls  are  garnished ; 
Thy  gates  with  praises  shine, 
Thy  streets  with  gold  are  spread. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

No  sun  by  day  shines  there, 
No  moon  by  silent  night ; 


JO 


Xanfc. 


Oh,  no  !  these  needless  are ; 
The  Lamb  's  the  city's  light. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

There  dwells  my  Lord,  my  King, 
Judged  here  unfit  to  live ; 
There  angels  to  him  sing, 
And  lovely  homage  give. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

The  patriarchs  of  old 
There  from  their  travels  cease ; 
The  prophets  there  behold 
Their  longed-for  Prince  of  Peace. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

The  Lamb's  apostles  there 
I  might  with  joy  behold, 
The  harpers  I  might  hear 
Harping  on  harps  of  gold. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

18 


for  Deaven, 


The  bleeding  martyrs,  they 
Within  these  courts  are  found, 
Clothe'd  in  pure  array, 
Their  scars  with  glory  crowned. 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ? 

Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  that  I 
In  Kedar's  tents  here  stay  ! 
No  place  like  this  on  high  ! 
Thither,  Lord  !  guide  my  way  ! 
O  happy  place  ! 
When  shall  I  be, 
My  God,  with  thee, 
To  see  thy  face  ?    • 

—  Samuel  Grossman* 


A  SIGHING  EXILE. 

the  fount  of  life  eternal 
Gazing  wistful  and  athirst, 

Yearning,  straining,  from  the  prison 
Of  confining  flesh  to  burst, 

Here  the  soul  an  exile  sighs 

For  her  native  Paradise. 

Who  can  paint  that  lovely  city, 
City  of  true  peace  divine, 

Whose  pure  gates  for  ever  open 
Each  in  pearly  splendor  shine ; 

Whose  abodes  of  glory  clear 

Naught  defiling  cometh  near  ? 

19 


fearless  Xanfc. 


There  no  stormy  winter  rages ; 

There  no  scorching  summer  glows ; 
But  through  one  perennial  springtide 

Bloom  the  lily  and  the  rose ; 
And  the  Lamb,  with  purest  ray, 
Scatters  round  eternal  day. 

There  the  saints  of  God,  resplendent 

As  the  sun  in  all  its  might, 
Evermore  rejoice  together, 

Crowned  with  diadems  of  light ; 
And  from  peril  safe  at  last, 
Reckon  up  their  triumphs  past. 

Happy  they  who,  with  them  seated, 

Shall  in  all  their  glory  share  ! 
Oh,  that  we,  our  days  completed, 

Might  but  be  admitted  there  t 
There  with  them  the  praise  to  sing 
Of  our  glorious  God  and  King. 

Look,  O  Jesus,  on  thy  soldiers, 

Worn  and  wounded  in  the  fight ; 
Grant,  oh,  grant  us  rest  forever 

In  thy  beatific  sight ; 
And  thyself  our  guerdon  be 
Through  a  long  eternity. 

—  Rev.  Edward  Caswali. 


MORE   LIFE. 

IOT  weary  of  thy  world, 

So  beautiful,  O  Father,  in  thy  love, 
Thy  world,  that,  glory-lighted  from  above, 
Lies  in  thy  hand  impearled  : 


N 


Look,  O  Jesus,  on  thy  soldiers, 

Worn  and  wounded  in  the  fight.     Page  20. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPB. 


for  Deaven. 


Not  asking  rest  from  toil :  — 
Sweet  toil,  that  draws  us  nearer  to  thy  side ; 
Ever  to  tend  thy  planting  satisfied, 

Though  in  ungenial  soil : 

Nor  to  be  freed  from  care, 
That  lifts  us  out  of  self's  lone  hollowness ; 
Since  unto  thy  dear  feet  we  all  may  press, 

And  leave  our  burdens  there  : 

But  oh,  for  tireless  strength  ! 
A  life  untainted  by  the  curse  of  sin, 
That  spreads  no  vile  contagion  from  within ;  — 

Found  without  spot,  at  length  ! 

For  power,  and  stronger  will 
To  pour  out  love  from  the  heart's  inmost  springs 
A  constant  freshness  for  all  needy  things ; 

In  blessing,  blessed  still ! 

Oh,  to  be  clothed  upon 
With  the  white  radiance  of  a  heavenly  form  ! 
To  feel  the  winge"d  Psyche  quit  the  worm, 

Life,  life  eternal  won  ! 

Oh,  to  be  free,  heart- free 
From  all  that  checks  the  right  endeavor  here  ! 
To  drop  the  weariness,  the  pain,  the  fear, 

To  know  death  cannot  be  ! 

Oh,  but  to  breathe  in  air 
Where  there  can  be  no  tyrant  and  no  slave ; 
Where  every  thought  is  pure  and  high  and  brave, 

And  all  that  is  is  fair  ! 

21 


fearless  fcanfc. 


More  life  !  the  life  of  heaven  ! 
A  perfect  liberty  to  do  thy  will  : 
Receiving  all  from  thee,  and  giving  still, 

Freely  as  thou  hast  given  ! 

More  life  !  a  prophecy 
Is  in  that  thirsty  cry,  if  read  aright. 
Deep  calleth  unto  deep  :  life  infinite, 

O  soul,  awaiteth  thee  ! 

—  Lucy  Larcom. 


LOVE,   REST,   AND   HOME! 

BEYOND  the  smiling  and  the  weeping, 
I  shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  waking  and  the  sleeping, 
Beyond  the  sowing  and  the  reaping, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  home  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  blooming  and  the  fading, 

I  shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  shining  and  the  shading, 
Beyond  the  hoping  and  the  dreading, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  home  \ 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  rising  and  the  setting, 
I  shall  be  soon ; 
22 


Beyond  the  calming  and  the  fretting, 
Beyond  remembering  and  forgetting, 
I  shall  be  soon. 

Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 

Sweet  home  ! 

Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting, 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  the  pulse's  fever  beating, 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  home  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

Beyond  the  frost-chain  and  the  fever, 

I  shall  be  soon  ; 

Beyond  the  rock-waste  and  the  river, 
Beyond  the  ever  and  the  never 

I  shall  be  soon. 
Love,  rest,  and  home  ! 
Sweet  home  ! 
Lord,  tarry  not,  but  come. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


MY   HOMELAND. 

MY  Homeland,  O  my  Homeland, 
The  land  of  souls  free-born  ! 
No  gloomy  night  is  known  there, 
But  aye  the  fadeless  morn  ; 


{Tearless  Xan&. 

I  'm  sighing  for  that  country, 

My  heart  is  aching  here ; 
There  's  no  pain  in  the  Homeland 

To  which  I  'm  drawing  near. 

My  Lord  is  in  the  Homeland, 

With  angels  bright  and  fair ; 
No  sinful  thing  or  evil 

Can  ever  enter  there ; 
The  music  of  the  ransomed 

Is  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  when  I  think  of  Homeland 

My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

My  loved  ones  in  the  Homeland 

Are  waiting  me  to  come, 
Where  neither  death  nor  sorrow 

Invade  their  holy  home  ; 
O  dear,  dear  native  country  ! 

O  rest  and  peace  above  ! 
Christ  bring  us  to  the  Homeland 

Of  His  eternal  love  ! 

—  H.R.Haweis. 

HOMESICK  FOR  HEAVEN. 

HOMESICK  for  heaven  !  winged  soul, 
Whose  folded  pinions  stir  with  longing, 
Sure  herald  this  of  that  bright  goal 

Toward  which  thy  eager  hopes  are  thronging. 

Homesick  for  heaven  !  weary  frame, 
The  Eden  curse  still  hanging  o'er  thee, 

Points  mutely  with  its  sword  of  flame 
To  that  dear  Beulah-land  before  thee. 


for  f>eaven* 


Homesick  for  heaven  !  throbbing  brain, 

Thine  infinite  desires  outreaching 
Thy  finite  powers,  this  blissful  pain 

A  boundless  destiny  is  teaching. 

Homesick  for  heaven  !  halting  tongue, 

The  muffled  music  of  thy  spirit, 
The  thoughts  unvoiced,  the  songs  unsung, 

Are  hints  of  what  thou  shalt  inherit. 

Homesick  for  heaven  !  yearning  heart, 
With  joy's  swift  pulse  beat  out  life's  story  : 

To  love  and  be  beloved  thou  art  ; 
And  love  's  for  aye,  not  transitory. 

Homesick  for  heaven  !  spirit  mine, 

For  God  and  holiness  thus  yearning, 
Behold  in  this  desire  of  thine, 

A  needle  to  its  magnet  turning. 

Homesick  for  heaven  !  sweetest  ill 

That  can  befall  a  soul  immortal  ! 
Dear  God,  I  thank  thee  for  the  spell 

That  makes  grim  death  a  shining  portal. 

—  EUa  Gilber  fives. 


THE   LIFE  ABOVE. 

T^HE  life  above,  the  life  on  high, 

Alone  is  life  in  verity ; 
Nor  can  we  life  at  all  enjoy, 
Till  this  poor  life  is  o'er ; 
Then,  O  sweet  Death  !  no  longer  fly 


From  me,  who,  ere  my  time  to  die, 

Am  dying  evermore ; 
Forevermore  I  weep  and  sigh, 
Dying,  because  I  do  not  die. 

To  Him,  who  deigns  in  me  to  live, 
What  better  gift  have  I  to  give, 
O  my  poor  earthly  life,  than  thee  ? 

Too  glad  of  thy  decay, 
So  but  I  may  the  sooner  see 
That  face  of  sweetest  majesty, 

For  which  I  pine  away ; 
While  evermore  I  weep  and  sigh, 
Dying,  because  I  do  not  die. 

Absent  from  thee,  my  Saviour  dear, 
I  call  not  life  this  living  here, 
But  a  long  dying  agony, 

The  sharpest  I  have  known  ; 
And  I  myself,  myself  to  see 
In  such  a  rack  of  misery, 

For  very  pity  moan ; 
And  ever,  ever  weep  and  sigh, 
Dying,  because  I  do  not  die. 

Ah  !  Lord,  my  light  and  living  breath, 

Take  me,  oh,  take  me  from  this  death, 

And  burst  the  bars  that  sever  me 

From  my  true  life  above  ! 
Think  how  I  die  thy  face  to  see, 
And  cannot  live  away  from  thee, 

O  my  eternal  Love  ! 
And  ever,  ever  weep  and  sigh, 
Dying,  because  I  do  not  die. 

26 


Xongtngs  for  "fceavem 


I  weary  of  this  endless  strife  ; 
I  weary  of  this  dying  life, 

This  living  death,  this  heavy  chain, 

This  torment  of  delay, 
In  which  her  sins  my  soul  detain. 
Ah  !  when  shall  it  be  mine  ?  —  ah,  when  ! 

With  my  last  breath  to  say,  — 
"  No  more  I  weep,  no  more  I  sigh  !  " 
I  'm  dying  of  desire  to  die. 

—  St.  Teresa.     Tr.  by  Edward  Caswatt. 


THE   PROMISED   LAND. 

ON  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand, 
And  cast  a  wistful  eye 
To  Canaan's  fair  and  happy  land, 
Where  my  possessions  lie. 

Oh,  the  transporting,  rapturous  scene 

That  rises  to  my  sight  ! 
Sweet  fields  arrayed  in  living  green, 

And  rivers  of  delight  ! 

There  generous  fruits,  that  never  fail, 

On  trees  immortal  grow  ; 
There  rock  and  hill  and  brook  and  vale 

With  milk  and  honey  flow. 

All  o'er  those  wide-extended  plains 

Shines  one  eternal  day  ; 
There  God  the  Sun  forever  reigns, 

And  scatters  night  away. 

No  chilling  winds  or  poisonous  breath 
Can  reach  that  healthful  shore  : 


27 


fearless  XanD. 


1787. 


Sickness  and  sorrow,  pain  and  death, 
Are  felt  and  feared  no  more. 

When  shall  I  reach  that  happy  place, 

And  be  forever  blest  ? 
When  shall  I  see  my  Father's  face, 

And  in  his  bosom  rest  ? 

Filled  with  delight,  my  raptured  soul 

Can  here  no  longer  stay  : 
Though  Jordan's  waves  around  me  roll, 

Fearless  I  'd  launch  away. 

—  Samuel  Stinnett. 


COME,   LIFE   AND   LIGHT. 

WOULD  you  be  young  again  ? 
So  would  not  I ;  — 
One  tear  to  memory  given, 

Onward  I  '11  hie  ;  — 
Life's  dark  wave  forded  o'er, 
All  but  at  rest  on  shore, 
Say,  would  you  plunge  once  more, 
With  home  so  nigh? 

If  you  might,  would  you  now 

Retrace  your  way  ? 
Wander  through  stormy  wilds, 

Faint  and  astray  ? 
Night's  gloomy  watches  fled, 
Morning  all  beaming  red, 
Hope's  smiles  around  us  shed, 

Heavenward,  away  ! 

28 


Xongfngs  for  t)eaven. 

Where  are  those  dear  ones, 

Our  joy  and  delight, 
Dear  and  more  dear,  though  now 

Hidden  from  sight  ? 
Where  they  rejoice  to  be, 
There  is  the  home  for  me  ; 
Fly,  Time  !  fly  speedily  ! 

Come,  life  and  light ! 
Carolina,  Baroness  of  Nairnc,  in  her  ^th  year. 

THE   HOMELAND. 

HOMELAND  !  O  Homeland  ! 

I  close  my  weary  eyes, 
And  let  the  happy  vision 
Before  my  spirit  rise. 

O  Homeland  !  O  Homeland  ! 

No  lonely  heart  is  there, 
No  rush  of  blinding  anguish, 

No  slowly  dropping  tear. 
Now,  like  an  infant  crying, 

Its  mother's  face  to  see, 
O  Motherland  !  O  Homeland  ! 

I  stretch  my  arms  to  thee. 

O  Homeland  !  O  Homeland  ! 

No  moaning  of  the  sick, 
No  crying  of  the  weary, 

No  sighing  of  the  weak. 
But  sound  of  children's  voices, 

And  shout  of  saintly  song, 
Are  heard  thy  happy  highways, 

And  golden  streets  along. 
29 


Cbe  Meatless  XanD. 

O  Homeland  !  O  Homeland  ! 

The  veil  is  very  thin 
That  stretches  thy  dear  meadows 

And  this  cold  world  between ; 
A  breath  aside  may  blow  it, 

A  heart-throb  burst  it  through, 
And  bring  in  one  glad  moment 

Thy  happy  lands  to  view. 

O  Homeland  !  O  Homeland  ! 

One  —  Chief  of  all  thy  band, 
One  —  altogether  lovely, 

One  —  Lord  of  all  the  land  — 
Stands,  eager,  at  the  gateway ; 

The  Bridegroom  waits  his  bride ; 
And  resting  on  his  bosom, 

"  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

—  Lucy  J.  Rider  Meyer. 

THE   LAND   OF   FADELESS   BEAUTY. 
I. 

THERE  is  a  land  where  beauty  cannot  fade, 
Nor  sorrow  dim  the  eye  ; 

Where  true  love  shall  not  droop  nor  be  dismayed, 
And  none  shall  ever  die  ! 
Where  is  that  land,  oh,  where  ? 
For  I  would  hasten  there  ! 
Tell  me,  I  fain  would  go, 
For  I  am  wearied  with  a  heavy  woe  ! 
The  beautiful  have  left  me  all  alone  : 
The  true,  the  tender,  from  my  path  have  gone ! 

30 


Yet  now  he  prayed,  unaided  and  alone, 

In  that  great  agony,  "Thy  will  be  done  !"     Page  31. 


(From  painting  by  Paul  Thurman.) 


HE  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


Oh,  guide  me  with  thy  hand, 

If  thou  dost  know  the  land, 
For  I  am  burdened  with  oppressive  care, 
And  I  am  weak  and  fearful  with  despair  ! 

Where  is  it?    Tell  me  where  ! 
Thou  that  art  kind  and  gentle,  tell  me  where  ! 

II. 

Friend,  thou  must  trust  in  Him  who  trod  before 

The  desolate  paths  of  life  ; 
Must  bear  in  meekness,  as  He  meekly  bore, 

Sorrow,  and  pain,  and  strife  ! 

Think  how  the  Son  of  God 

These  thorny  paths  hath  trod ; 

Think  how  He  longed  to  go, 
Yet  tarried  out  for  thee  the  appointed  woe  ; 
Think  of  His  weariness  in  places  dim, 
When  no  man  comforted  or  cared  for  him  ! 

Think  of  the  blood-like  sweat 

With  which  his  brow  was  wet, 
Yet  how  he  prayed,  unaided  and  alone, 
In  that  great  agony,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

Friend,  do  not  thou  despair, 

Christ  from  his  heaven  of  heavens  will  hear  thy  prayer. 
— Johann  Ludwig  Uhland ;  Translator  unknown. 


i  Note  i. 


THE   CELESTIAL   COUNTRY.1 

T^HE  world  is  very  evil ! 
•*•       The  times  are  waxing  late  : 
Be  sober,  and  keep  vigil ; 
The  Judge  is  at  the  gate  : 


3be  fearless  XanO. 


The  Judge  that  comes  in  mercy, 

The  Judge  that  comes  with  might, 
To  terminate  the  evil, 

To  diadem  the  right. 
When  the  just  and  gentle  Monarch 

Shall  summon  from  the  tomb, 
Let  man,  the  guilty,  tremble, 

For  Man,  the  God,  shall  doom. 
Arise,  arise,  good  Christian, 

Let  right  to  wrong  succeed ; 
Let  penitential  sorrow 

To  heavenly  gladness  lead ; 
To  the  light  that  hath  no  evening, 

That  knows  nor  moon  nor  sun, 
The  light  so  new  and  golden, 

The  light  that  is  but  one. 
And  when  the  Sole- Begotten 

Shall  render  up  once  more 
The  kingdom  to  the  Father 

Whose  own  it  was  before,  — 
Then  glory  yet  unheard  of 

Shall  shed  abroad  its  ray, 
Resolving  all  enigmas, 

An  endless  Sabbath-day. 
Then,  then  from  his  oppressors 

The  Hebrew  shall  go  free, 
And  celebrate  in  triumph 

The  year  of  Jubilee ; 
And  the  sunlit  Land  that  recks  not 

Of  tempest  nor  of  fight, 
Shall  fold  within  its  bosom 

Each  happy  Israelite : 

32 


for  Ibeaven, 


The  Home  of  fadeless  splendor, 

Of  flowers  that  fear  no  thorn, 
Where  they  shall  dwell  as  children, 

Who  here  as  exiles  mourn. 
Midst  power  that  knows  no  limit, 

And  wisdom  free  trom  bound, 
The  beatific  vision 

Shall  glad  the  saints  around  : 
The  peace  of  all  the  faithful, 

The  calm  of  all  the  blest, 
Inviolate,  unvaried, 

Divinest,  sweetest,  best. 
Yes,  peace  !  for  war  is  needless,  — 

Yes,  calm  !  for  storm  is  past,  — 
And  goal  from  finished  labor, 

And  anchorage  at  last. 
That  peace  —  but  who  may  claim  it  ? 

The  guileless  in  their  way, 
Who  keep  the  ranks  of  battle, 

Who  mean  the  thing  they  say : 
The  peace  that  is  for  heaven, 

And  shall  be  for  the  earth : 
The  palace  that  re-echoes 

With  festal  song  and  mirth ; 
The  garden,  breathing  spices, 

The  paradise  on  high  : 
Grace  beautified  to  glory, 

Unceasing  minstrelsy. 
There  nothing  can  be  feeble, 

There  none  can  ever  mourn, 
There  nothing  is  divided, 

There  nothing  can  be  torn : 

33 


fearless  Xanfc. 

T  is  fury,  ill,  and  scandal, 

'T  is  peaceless  peace  below ; 
Peace,  endless,  strifeless,  ageless, 

The  halls  of  Syon  know : 
O  happy,  holy  portion, 

Refection  for  the  blest : 
True  vision  of  true  beauty, 

Sweet  cure  of  all  distress  ! 
Strive,  man,  to  win  that  glory ; 

Toil,  man,  to  gain  that  light ; 
Send  hope  before  to  grasp  it, 

Till  hope  be  lost  in  sight : 
Till  Jesus  gives  the  portion 

Those  blessed  souls  to  fill, 
The  insatiate,  yet  satisfied, 

The  full,  yet  craving  still. 
That  fullness  and  that  craving 

Alike  are  free  from  pain, 
Where  thou,  midst  heavenly  citizens, 

A  home  like  theirs  shalt  gain. 
Here  is  the  warlike  trumpet ; 

There,  life  set  free  from  sin ; 
When  to  the  last  Great  Supper 

The  faithful  shall  come  in : 
When  the  heavenly  net  is  laden 

With  fishes  many  and  great ; 
So  glorious  in  its  fullness, 

Yet  so  inviolate : 
And  the  perfect  from  the  shattered, 

And  the  fall'n  from  them  that  stand, 
And  the  sheep-flock  from  the  goat-herd 

Shall  part  on  either  hand  : 

34 


JO 


Jesus  the  Nazarene  :  The  King,  the  Crucified     Page  35. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPK 


for  1>eaven, 


And  these  shall  pass  to  torment, 

And  those  shall  triumph,  then ; 
The  new  peculiar  nation, 

Blest  number  of  blest  men. 
Jerusalem  demands  them : 

They  paid  the  price  on  earth, 
And  now  shall  reap  the  harvest 

In  blissfulness  and  mirth  : 
The  glorious  holy  people, 

Who  evermore  relied 
Upon  their  Chief  and  Father, 

The  King,  the  Crucified  : 
The  sacred  ransomed  number 

Now  bright  with  endless  sheen, 
Who  made  the  Cross  their  watchword 

Of  Jesus,  Nazarene  : 
Who,  fed  with  heavenly  nectar, 

Where  foul-like  odors  play, 
Draw  out  the  endless  leisure 

Of  that  long  vernal  day  : 
And  through  the  sacred  lilies, 

And  flowers  on  every  side, 
The  happy,  dear-bought  people 

Go  wandering  far  and  wide. 
Their  breasts  are  filled  with  gladness, 

Their  mouths  are  tuned  to  praise, 
What  time,  now  safe  forever, 

On  former  sins  they  gaze  : 
The  fouler  was  the  error, 

The  sadder  was  the  fall, 
The  ampler  are  the  praises 

Of  Him  who  pardoned  all. 

35 


Their  one  and  only  anthem, 

The  fullness  of  His  love, 
Who  gives,  instead  of  torment, 

Eternal  joys  above  : 
Instead  of  torment,  glory ; 

Instead  of  death,  that  life 
Wherewith  your  happy  Country 

True  Israelites,  is  rife. 


Brief  life  is  here  our  portion  ; 

Brief  sorrow,  short-lived  care  ; 
The  life  that  knows  no  ending, 

The  tearless  life,  is  there. 
O  happy  retribution  ! 

Short  toil,  eternal  rest  ; 
For  mortals  and  for  sinners 

A  mansion  with  the  blest  ! 
That  we  should  look,  poor  wand'rers, 

To  have  our  home  on  high  ! 
That  worms  should  seek  for  dwellings 

Beyond  the  starry  sky  ! 
To  all  one  happy  guerdon 

Of  one  celestial  grace  ; 
For  all,  for  all,  who  mourn  their  fall, 

Is  one  eternal  place  : 
And  martyrdom  hath  roses 

Upon  that  heavenly  ground  : 
And  white  and  virgin  lilies 

For  virgin  souls  abound. 
Their  grief  is  turned  to  pleasure  ; 

Such  pleasure,  as  below 


36 


for  f>eaven. 


No  human  voice  can  utter, 

No  human  heart  can  know : 
And  after  fleshly  scandal, 

And  after  this  world's  night, 
And  after  storm  and  whirlwind, 

Is  calm,  and  joy,  and  light. 
And  now  we  fight  the  battle, 

But  then  shall  wear  the  crown 
Of  full  and  everlasting 

And  passionless  renown  : 
And  now  we  watch  and  struggle, 

And  now  we  live  in  hope, 
And  Syon,  in  her  anguish, 

With  Babylon  must  cope  : 
But  He  whom  now  we  trust  in 

Shall  then  be  seen  and  known, 
And  they  that  know  and  see  Him 

Shall  have  Him  for  their  own. 
The  miserable  pleasures 

Of  the  body  shall  decay : 
The  bland  and  flattering  struggles 

Of  the  flesh  shall  pass  away  : 
And  none  shall  there  be  jealous ; 

And  none  shall  there  contend : 
Fraud,  clamor,  guile,  —  what  say  I  ? 

All  ill,  all  ill  shall  end  ! 
And  there  is  David's  Fountain, 

And  life  in  fullest  glow, 
And  there  the  light  is  golden, 

And  milk  and  honey  flow  : 
The  light  that  hath  no  evening, 

The  health  that  hath  no  sore, 


37 


fearless 


The  life  that  hath  no  ending, 
But  lasteth  evermore. 


There  Jesus  shall  embrace  us, 

There  Jesus  be  embraced,  — 
That  spirit's  food  and  sunshine 

Whence  earthly  love  is  chased. 
Amidst  the  happy  chorus, 

A  place,  however  low, 
Shall  show  Him  us,  and,  showing, 

Shall  satiate  evermo. 
By  hope  we  struggle  onward, 

While  here  we  must  be  fed 
By  milk,  as  tender  infants, 

But  there  by  Living  Bread. 
The  night  was  full  of  terror, 

The  morn  is  bright  with  gladness 
The  Cross  becomes  our  harbor, 

And  we  triumph  after  sadness  : 
And  Jesus  to  his  true  ones 

Brings  trophies  fair  to  see  : 
And  Jesus  shall  be  loved,  and 

Beheld  in  Galilee : 
Beheld,  when  morn  shall  waken, 

And  shadows  shall  decay  : 
And  each  true-hearted  servant 

Shall  shine  as  doth  the  day  : 
And  every  ear  shall  hear  it ;  — 

Behold  thy  King's  array  : 
Behold  thy  God  in  beauty ; 

The  Law  hath  passed  away  ! 

38 


Xongings  for  Deaven. 


Yes  !  God  my  King  and  Portion, 

In  fullness  of  His  grace, 
We  then  shall  see  forever, 

And  worship  face  to  face. 
Then  Jacob  into  Israel, 

From  earthlier  self  estranged, 
And  Leah  into  Rachel 

Forever  shall  be  changed  : 
Then  all  the  halls  of  Syon 

For  aye  shall  be  complete, 
And,  in  the  Land  of  Beauty, 

All  things  of  beauty  meet. 


For  thee,  O  dear,  dear  Country  ! 

Mine  eyes  their  vigils  keep ; 
For  very  love,  beholding 

Thy  happy  name,  they  weep  : 
The  mention  of  thy  glory 

Is  unction  to  the  breast, 
And  medicine  in  sickness, 

And  love,  and  life,  and  rest. 
O  one,  O  onely  Mansion  ! 

O  Paradise  of  Joy  ! 
Where  tears  are  ever  banished, 

And  smiles  have  no  alloy ; 
Beside  thy  living  waters 

All  plants  are,  great  and  small, 
The  cedar  of  the  forest, 

The  hyssop  of  the  wall :  , 
With  jaspers  glow  thy  bulwarks  ; 

Thy  streets  with  emeralds  blaze 


39 


ilbe  fearless  XanD. 


The  sardius  and  the  topaz 

Unite  in  thee  their  rays  : 
Thine  ageless  walls  are  bonded 

With  amethyst  unpriced : 
Thy  saints  build  up  its  fabric, 

And  the  corner-stone  is  Christ. 
The  Cross  is  all  thy  splendor, 

The  Crucified  thy  praise  : 
His  laud  and  benediction 

Thy  ransomed  people  raise  : 
Jesus,  the  Gem  of  Beauty, 

True  God  and  Man,  they  sing : 
The  never-failing  Garden, 

The  ever-golden  Ring : 
The  Door,  the  Pledge,  the  Husband, 

The  Guardian  of  his  Court : 
The  Day-star  of  Salvation, 

The  Porter  and  the  Port. 
Thou  hast  no  shore,  fair  ocean  ! 

Thou  hast  no  time,  bright  day  ! 
Dear  fountain  of  refreshment 

To  pilgrims  far  away  ! 
Upon  the  Rock  of  Ages 

They  raise  thy  holy  tower : 
Thine  is  the  victor's  laurel, 

And  thine  the  golden  dower : 
Thou  feel'st  in  mystic  rapture, 

O  Bride  that  know'st  no  guile, 
The  Prince's  sweetest  kisses, 

The  Prince's  loveliest  smile ; 
Unfading  lilies,  bracelets 

Of  living  pearl  thine  own ; 

40 


OLongfngs  tor  Deaven. 


The  Lamb  is  ever  near  thee, 

The  Bridegroom  thine  alone ; 
The  Crown  is  He  to  guerdon, 

The  Buckler  to  protect, 
And  He  himself  the  Mansion 

And  He  the  Architect. 
The  only  art  thou  needest, 

Thanksgiving  for  thy  lot : 
The  only  joy  thou  seekest, 

The  Life  where  Death  is  not : 
And  all  thine  endless  leisure 

In  sweetest  accents  sings, 
The  ill  that  was  thy  merit,  — 

The  wealth  that  is  thy  King's  ! 


Jerusalem  the  golden, 

With  milk  and  honey  blest, 
Beneath  thy  contemplation 

Sink  heart  and  voice  oppressed  : 
I  know  not,  O  I  know  not, 

What  social  joys  are  there  ; 
What  radiancy  of  glory, 

What  light  beyond  compare  ! 
And  when  I  fain  would  sing  them, 

My  spirit  fails  and  faints ; 
And  vainly  would  it  image 

The  assembly  of  the  saints. 
They  stand,  those  halls  of  Syon, 

Conjubilant  with  song, 
And  bright  with  many  an  angel, 

And  all  the  martyr  throng  : 


fearless  Xanfc. 

The  Prince  is  ever  in  them ; 

The  daylight  is  serene  ; 
The  pastures  of  the  Blesse'd 

Are  decked  in  glorious  sheen. 
There  is  the  throne  of  David,  — 

And  there,  from  care  released, 
The  song  of  them  that  triumph, 

The  shout  of  them  that  feast : 
And  they  who,  with  their  Leader, 

Have  conquered  in  the  fight, 
Forever  and  forever 

Are  clad  in  robes  of  white  ! 

O  holy,  placid  harp-notes 

Of  that  eternal  hymn  ! 
O  sacred,  sweet  refection, 

And  peace  of  seraphim  ! 
O  thirst,  forever  ardent, 

Yet  evermore  content ! 
O  true  peculiar  vision 

Of  God  cunctipotent ! 
Ye  know  the  many  mansions 

For  many  a  glorious  name, 
And  divers  retributions 

That  divers  merits  claim  : 
For  midst  the  constellations 

That  deck  our  earthly  sky, 
This  star  than  that  is  brighter,  — 

And  so  it  is  on  high. 

Jerusalem  the  glorious  ! 
The  glory  of  th'  elect  I 


42 


tot  Ibeavetu 


O  dear  and  future  vision 

That  eager  hearts  expect  ; 
Even  now  by  faith  I  see  thee  ; 

Even  here  thy  walls  discern  : 
To  thee  my  thoughts  are  kindled, 

And  strive  and  pant  and  yearn  : 
Jerusalem  the  onely, 

That  look'st  from  heaven  below, 
In  thee  is  all  my  glory  ; 

In  me  is  all  my  woe  : 
And  though  my  body  may  not, 

My  spirit  seeks  thee  fain, 
Till  flesh  and  earth  return  me 

To  earth  and  flesh  again. 
O  none  can  tell  thy  bulwarks, 

How  gloriously  they  rise  : 
O  none  can  tell  thy  capitals 

Of  beautiful  device  : 
Thy  loveliness  oppresses 

All  human  thought  and  heart  : 
And  none,  O  peace,  O  Syon, 

Can  sing  thee  as  thou  art. 
New  mansion  of  new  people, 

Whom  God's  own  love  and  light 
Promote,  increase,  make  holy, 

Identify,  unite. 
Thou  City  of  the  Angels  ! 

Thou  City  of  the  Lord  ! 
Whose  everlasting  music 

Is  the  glorious  decachord  !  l 

1  Decachord  is  the  "  instrument  of  ten  strings,"  indicating  perfect  harmony. 


43 


fearless  Xanfc, 


And  there  the  band  of  Prophets 

United  praise  ascribes, 
And  there  the  twelve-fold  chorus 

Of  Israel's  ransomed  tribes : 
The  lily-beds  of  virgins, 

The  roses'  martyr-glow, 
The  cohort  of  the  Fathers 

Who  kept  the  faith  below. 
And  there  the  Sole-Begotten 

Is  Lord  in  regal  state  ; 
He,  Judah's  mystic  Lion, 

He,  Lamb  Immaculate. 
O  fields  that  know  no  sorrow  ! 

O  state  that  fears  no  strife  ! 

0  princely  bovv'rs  !     O  land  of  flow'rs  ! 

0  realm  and  home  of  life  ! 

Jerusalem,  exulting 
On  that  securest  shore, 

1  hope  thee,  wish  thee,  sing  thee, 

And  love  thee  evermore  1 
I  ask  not  for  my  merit : 

1  seek  not  to  deny 
My  merit  is  destruction, 

A  child  of  wrath  am  I : 
But  yet  with  Faith  I  venture 

And  Hope  upon  my  way ; 
For  those  perennial  guerdons 

I  labor  night  and  day. 
The  Best  and  Dearest  Father 

Who  made  me  and  who  saved, 


44 


Xcngings  for  Deaven. 

Bore  with  me  in  defilement, 

And  from  defilement  laved ; 
When  in  His  strength  I  struggle, 

For  very  joy  I  leap, 
When  in  my  sin  I  totter, 

I  weep,  or  try  to  weep  : 
And  grace,  sweet  grace  celestial, 

Shall  all  its  love  display, 
And  David's  Royal  Fountain 

Purge  every  sin  away. 
O  mine,  my  golden  Syon  ! 

O  lovelier  far  than  gold  ! 
With  laurel-girt  battalions, 

And  safe  victorious  fold  : 
O  sweet  and  blessed  country, 

Shall  I  ever  see  thy  face  ? 

0  sweet  and  blessed  country, 
Shall  I  ever  win  thy  grace  ? 

1  have  the  hope  within  me 
To  comfort  and  to  bless  ! 

Shall  I  ever  win  the  prize  itself? 
O  tell  me,  tell  me,  Yes  ! 

Exult,  O  dust  and  ashes  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part : 
His  only,  His  forever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 
Exult,  O  dust  and  ashes  ! 

The  Lord  shall  be  thy  part : 
His  only,  His  forever, 

Thou  shalt  be,  and  thou  art ! 
Bernard  of  Cluny.     Tr.  by  John  M.  Neale,  D.D. 

45 


Xano, 


O   MOTHER   DEAR,   JERUSALEM.1 

O  MOTHER  dear,  Jerusalem, 
When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end? 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ? 

O  happy  harbor  of  God's  saints  ! 

O  sweet  and  pleasant  soil ! 
In  thee  no  sorrow  can  be  found, 

Nor  grief,  nor  care,  nor  toil. 

No  dimming  cloud  o'ershadows  thee, 
Nor  gloom,  nor  darksome  night ; 

But  every  soul  shines  as  the  sun, 
For  God  himself  gives  light. 

Thy  walls  are  made  of  precious  stone, 

Thy  bulwarks  diamond-square, 
Thy  gates  are  all  of  orient  pearl  — 

O  God  !  if  I  were  there  ! 

0  my  sweet  home,  Jerusalem  ! 
Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see  ?  — 

The  King  that  sitteth  on  thy  throne 
In  his  felicity  ? 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  goodly  walks 

Continually  are  green, 
Where  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 

As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

Right  through  thy  streets  with  pleasing  sound 

The  flood  of  life  doth  flow, 
And  on  the  banks,  on  either  side, 

The  trees  of  life  do  grow. 

1  Note  2. 

46 


Those  trees  each  month  yield  ripened  fruit ; 

For  evermore  they  spring, 
And 'all  the  nations  of  the  earth 

To  thee  their  homage  bring. 

There  the  blest  souls  that  hardly  'scaped 

The  snare  of  death  and  hell, 
Triumph  in  joy  eternally, 

Whereof  no  tongue  can  tell. 

O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem. 

When  shall  I  come  to  thee  ? 
When  shall  my  sorrows  have  an  end  ? 

Thy  joys  when  shall  I  see? 

—  Rev.  David  Dickson. 


O  ANGEL  OF  THE   LAND    OF   PEACE. 

O  ANGEL  of  the  land  of  peace, 
When  wilt  thou  ever  come  for  me  ? 
I  fain  would  be  where  sorrows  cease, 
I  dread  no  more  thy  kind  release, 
I  wait  for  thee. 

Sleep  shuns  mine  eyes  —  mine  inner  sight 
Is  turning  dimly  heavenward, 
To  that  far-off  land  of  love  and  light, 
Where  angels  all  the  silent  night 
Earth's  children  guard. 

My  yearning  soul  would  fain  demand, 
O  holy  angels,  pure  and  blest, 
Where,  mid  yon  happy,  shining  band, 
In  all  the  heavenly  Fatherland, 
My  lost  ones  rest ! 

47 


fearless  Xanfc. 

Thou,  who  alone,  when  man  forgot 
His  heavenly  innocence,  and  fell, 
Still  pitying,  lingered  round  the  spot 
To  soothe  the  anguish  of  his  lot  — 
Thou,  thou  canst  tell ! 

For  thou,  with  sweet  and  loving  smile, 
Didst  gently  lure  them  to  thy  breast, 
And  bear  them  from  this  world  of  guile, 
Thy  pale,  pure  angel  lips  the  while 
Upon  them  prest. 

Dark  grew  my  soul  —  till  down  the  air 
Thy  seraph  smile  upon  me  fell ! 
And  then  I  knew,  from  sin  and  care, 
That  thou  my  little  ones  didst  bear 
With  God  to  dwell ! 

0  angel  of  the  land  of  peace  ! 
When  wilt  thou  ever  come  for  me  ? 

1  fain  would  be  where  sorrows  cease ; 
I  dread  no  more  thy  kind  release ; 

I  wait  for  thee  ! 

—  Mrs.  C.  M.  Sawyer, 


THE   LAND   BEYOND  THE   SEA. 

THE  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 
When  will  life's  task  be  o'er? 
When  shall  we  reach  that  soft  blue  shore, 
O'er  the  dark  strait  whose  billows  foam  and  roar? 
When  shall  we  come  to  thee, 
Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea? 


Xongfngs  foe  Deavetu 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

How  close  it  often  seems, 

When  flushed  with  evening's  peaceful  gleams  ; 

And  the  wistful  heart  looks  o'er  the  strait,  and  dreams  ! 

It  longs  to  fly  to  thee, 

Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

Sometimes  distinct  and  near 

It  grows  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

And  the  gulf  narrows  to  a  threadlike  mere ; 

We  seem  halfway  to  thee, 

Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea ! 

Sometimes  across  the  strait, 

Like  a  drawbridge  to  a  castle  gate, 

The  slanting  sunbeams  lie,  and  seem  to  wait 

For  us  to  pass  to  thee, 

Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea ! 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

Oh,  how  the  lapsing  years, 

Mid  our  not  unsubmissive  tears, 

Have  borne,  now  singly,  now  in  fleets,  the  biers 

Of  those  we  love  to  thee, 

Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 
How  dark  our  present  home  ! 
By  the  dull  beach  and  sullen  foam 
How  wearily,  how  drearily  we  roam, 
With  arms  outstretched  to  thee, 
Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

49 


fearless  XanD. 


The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 
When  will  our  toil  be  done? 
Slow-footed  years  !  more  swiftly  run 
Into  the  gold  of  that  unsetting  sun  ! 
Homesick  we  are  for  thee, 
Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

Why  fadest  thou  in  light? 

Why  art  thou  better  seen  towards  night? 

Dear  Land  !  look  always  plain,  look  always  bright, 

That  we  may  gaze  on  thee, 

Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 
Sweet  is  thy  endless  rest, 
But  sweeter  far  that  Father's  breast 
Upon  thy  shores  eternally  possest  j 
For  Jesus  reigns  o'er  thee, 
Calm  Land  beyond  the  Sea  ! 

—  Frederick  William  Faber. 


I'M   KNEELING  AT  THE  THRESHOLD. 

I'M  kneeling  at  the  threshold,  weary,  faint  and  sore  : 
Waiting  for  the  dawning,  for  the  opening  of  the  door ; 
Waiting  till  the  Master  shall  bid  me  rise  and  come 
To  the  glory  of  his  presence,  to  the  gladness  of  his  home. 

A  weary  path  I've   traveled,  mid  darkness,  storm  and 

strife ; 

Bearing  many  a  burden,  struggling  for  my  life  : 
But  now  the  morn  is  breaking,  my  toil  will  soon  be  o'er, 
I  'm  kneeling  at  the  threshold,  my  hand  is  on  the  door. 

50 


Xongings  tot  f>eaven. 

Methinks  I  hear  the  voices  of  the  blessed  as  they  stand, 

Singing  in  the  sunshine  of  the  sinless  land  ; 

Oh,  would  that  I  were  with  them,  amid  their  shining 

throng, 
Mingling  in  their  worship,  joining  in  their  song  ! 

The  friends  that  started  with  me  have  entered  long  ago  ; 
One  by  one  they  left  me  struggling  with  the  foe  ; 
Their  pilgrimage  was  shorter,  their  triumph  sooner  won  ; 
How  lovingly  they  '11  hail  me  when  my  toil  is  done  ! 

With  them  the  blessed  angels  that  know  no  grief  nor 

sin, 

I  see  them  by  the  portals,  prepared  to  let  me  in. 
O  Lord,  I  wait  thy  pleasure  ;  thy  time  and  way  are  best  ; 
But  I  am  wasted,  worn,  and  weary;  O  Father,  bid  me 

rest  ! 

—  The  Sunday  Magazine. 


THE   DISTANT   LAND. 

"II  7  HERE  dost  thou  lie,  O  Land  of  Peace? 

*  *       Across  what  foaming  ocean's  swell? 
My  heart,  with  sighs  that  never  cease, 

Yearns  in  thy  palaces  to  dwell  ; 
But  yet,  O  fair  and  distant  land, 
I  cannot  see  thy  shining  strand. 

Sometimes  when  morning's  iris  light 

Is  flaming  in  the  eastern  sky, 
I  say,  Beneath  that  rose  and  white 

The  blessed  realm  must  surely  lie  ! 
But  morning's  brow  by  noon  is  fanned, 
And  thou  art  still  the  distant  land. 


Ci>e  fearless  XanD. 


And  oft  when  sunset's  burnished  gold 
Falls  warm  upon  the  water's  breast, 

I  say,  Beyond  that  glorious  fold 

Must  gleam  the  islands  of  the  blest ! 

But  stars  steal  out,  a  silent  band, 

And  thou  art  still  the  distant  land. 

And  then  I  dream  —  a  blissful  dream 
That  I  have  gained  thy  tranquil  bowers, 

And  lo  !  life's  sorrows  only  seem 

Winds  that  a  moment  bent  its  flowers  — 

I  wake,  I  clasp  no  angel  hand, 

And  thou  art  still  the  distant  land. 

I  watch,  I  long,  I  faint  for  thee  ! 

Canst  thou  not  open  wide  the  door, 
That  I  may  enter  in  and  be 

Part  of  thy  peace  forevermore  ? 
O  send  that  sleep  so  sweet,  so  grand, 
And  thou  shalt  be  no  distant  land  ! 


—  Anon. 


WHERE   SUNS   GO   DOWN. 

BEYOND  the  hills  where  suns  go  down, 
And  brightly  beckon  as  they  go, 
I  see  the  land  of  fair  renown, 

The  land  which  I  so  soon  shall  know. 

Above  the  dissonance  of  time, 
And  discord  of  its  angry  words, 

I  hear  the  everlasting  chime, 
The  music  of  unjarring  chords. 

52 


I  bid  it  welcome,  and  my  haste 
To  join  it  cannot  brook  delay ; 

O  song  of  morning,  come  at  last, 
And  ye  who  sing  it,  come  away 


O  song  of  light,  and  dawn,  and  bliss, 
Sound  over  earth,  and  fill  these  skies ; 

Nor  ever,  ever,  ever  cease 
Thy  soul-entrancing  melodies ;  — 

Glad  song  of  this  disburdened  earth, 
Which  holy  voices  then  shall  sing, 

Praise  for  creation's  second  birth, 
And  glory  to  creation's  King. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


OH,   FOR  THE  ROBES  OF  WHITENESS! 

OH,  for  the  robes  of  whiteness ! 
Oh,  for  the  tearless  eyes  ! 
Oh,  for  the  glorious  brightness 
Of  the  unclouded  skies  ! 

Oh,  for  the  no  more  weeping 

Within  the  land  of  love, 
The  endless  joy  of  keeping 

The  bridal  feast  above  ! 

Oh,  for  the  bliss  of  dying, 

My  risen  Lord  to  meet ! 
Oh,  for  the  rest  of  lying 

Forever  at  his  feet ! 


53 


3be  fearless  XanD* 


Oh,  for  the  hour  of  seeing 

My  Saviour  face  to  face, 
The  hope  of  ever  being 

In  that  sweet  meeting-place  ! 

Jesus,  thou  King  of  glory, 

I  soon  shall  dwell  with  thee ; 
I  soon  shall  sing  the  story 

Of  thy  great  love  to  me  ! 

Meanwhile  my  thoughts  shall  enter 

E'en  now,  before  thy  throne 
That  all  my  love  may  center 

On  thee,  and  thee  alone  ! 

—  Charitie  Lees  Smith. 

COME,   TRIUMPHANT  DAY. 

OLAND  relieved  from  sorrow  ! 
O  land  secure  from  tears  ! 
Oh,  respite  on  the  morrow 

From  all  the  toil  of  years  ! 
To  thee  we  hasten  ever, 

To  thee  our  steps  ascend, 
Where  darkness  cometh  never, 
And  joy  shall  never  end. 

O  happy,  holy  portal 

For  God's  own  blest  elect : 
O  region,  pure,  immortal, 

With  better  spring  bedecked : 
Thy  pearly  doors  for  ever 

Their  welcome  shall  extend, 
Where  darkness  cometh  never, 

And  joy  shall  never  end. 

54 


3Lon0fngs  for  toeaven. 


O  home  where  God  the  Father 

Takes  all  his  children  in  : 
Where  Christ  the  Son  shall  gather 

The  sinners  saved  from  sin  : 
No  night  nor  fear  shall  sever 

A  friend  from  any.  friend, 
For  darkness  cometh  never, 

And  joy  shall  never  end. 

Rise,  then,  O  brightest  morning  ! 

Come,  then,  triumphant  day  ! 
When  into  new  adorning 

We  change  and  pass  away  : 
For  so  with  firm  endeavor 

Our  spirits  gladly  tend 
Where  darkness  cometh  never, 

And  joy  shall  never  end. 

—  Samuel  W.  Dufiicld. 

I   HAVE   HEARD    HIS  VOICE. 

'"THERE  are  refreshments  sweeter  far  than  sleep, 

Though  its  soft  power 
Might  gladly  close  the  vigils  I  now  keep 

From  hour  to  hour, 

And  hush  these  vain  imaginings  to  rest, 
Which  silence  in  my  heart  its  dearest  Guest. 

Oh,  I  have  heard  His  voice,  his  voice  of  love, 

In  the  still  night, 
Sweet  as  the  songs  from  seraph  hearts  above, 

Tranced  in  delight  ! 

It  haunts  my  memory,  lives  within  my  heart, 
And  makes  me  long,  yea,  languish  to  depart. 

55 


tearless  3Lan<x 

Those  who  have  heard  it  once  can  ne'er  forget 

That  voice  divine ; 
With  it  compared,  earth's  accents  are  not  sweet. 

My  God,  I  pine 

A  dweller  in  those  palaces  to  be, 
Where  I  shall  hear  it  through  eternity. 

Then  I  shall  ne'er  be  harassed  by  the  din 

Of  earthly  thought  ; 
All  will  be  holy  and  serene  within  ; 

My  spirit,  fraught 

With  deepest  reverence,  with  intense  desire, 
Will  listen  to  that  voice,  and  never  tire. 

—  Charlotte  Elliott. 


O   PARADISE!     O   PARADISE! 


O 


1  Having  a  desire  to  depart,  and  to  be  with  Christ ;  which  is  far  better. 

PARADISE  !     O  Paradise  ! 

Who  doth  not  crave  thy  rest  ? 
Who  would  not  seek  the  happy  land 
Where  they  that  loved  are  blest? 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 
All  rapture  through  and  through, 
In  God's  most  holy  sight. 

O  Paradise  !     O  Paradise  ! 

The  world  is  growing  old ; 
Who  would  not  be  at  rest  and  free 

Where  love  is  never  cold  ? 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true,  etc. 

56 


Xongfn0s  for  Deavett, 

0  Paradise  !     O  Paradise  ! 
'T  is  weary  waiting  here ; 

1  long  to  be  where  Jesus  is, 
To  feel,  to  see  him  near ; 

Where  loyal  hearts  and  true,  etc. 

0  Paradise  !     O  Paradise  ! 
I  want  to  sin  no  more, 

1  want  to  be  as  pure  on  earth 

As  on  thy  spotless  shore ; 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true,  etc. 

O  Paradise  !     O  Paradise  ! 

I  greatly  long  to  see 
The  special  place  my  dearest  Lord 

In  love  prepares  for  me  ; 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true,  etc. 

Lord  Jesu,  King  of  Paradise, 

O  keep  me  in  Thy  love, 
And  guide  me  to  that  happy  land 

Of  perfect  rest  above  ; 
Where  loyal  hearts  and  true 

Stand  ever  in  the  light, 
All  rapture  through  and  through, 

In  God's  most  holy  sight.     Amen. 

— Frederick  William  Faber. 


LET  me  be  with  Thee  where  thou  art, 
My  Saviour,  my  eternal  rest; 
Then  only  will  this  longing  heart 
Be  fully  and  forever  blest. 


Let  me  be  with  Thee  where  thou  art, 

Thy  unveiled  glory  to  behold ; 
Then  only  will  this  wandering  heart 

Cease  to  be  treacherous,  faithless,  cold. 

Let  me  be  with  Thee  where  thou  art, 
Where  spotless  saints  Thy  name  adore  ; 

Then  only  will  this  sinful  heart 
Be  evil  and  defiled  no  more. 

Let  me  be  with  Thee  where  thou  art, 

Where  none  can  die,  where  none  remove  ; 

There  neither  death  nor  life  will  part 
Me  from  thy  presence  and  thy  love. 

—  Charlotte  Elliott. 


THE   REALMS   OF  THE   BLEST. 

\17E  speak  of  the  realms  of  the  blest, 

*  »       Of  that  country  so  bright  and  so  fair, 
And  oft  are  its  glories  confess'd ; 
But  what  must  it  be  to  be  there  ! 

We  speak  of  its  pathways  of  gold, 

And  its  walls  decked  with  jewels  most  rare ; 
Of  its  wonders  and  pleasures  untold ; 

But  what  must  it  be  to  be  there  ! 

We  speak  of  its  freedom  from  sin, 
From  sorrow,  temptation,  and  care ; 

From  trials  without  and  within  ; 
But  what  must  it  be  to  be  there  ! 


longings  for  TDeaven. 

We  speak  of  its  service  of  love, 

Of  the  robes  which  the  glorified  wear ; 

Of  the  Church  of  the  first-born  above ; 
But  what  must  it  be  to  be  there  ! 

Then  let  us,  midst  pleasure  and  woe, 

Still  for  heaven  our  spirits  prepare, 
And  shortly  we  also  shall  know, 

And  feel  what  it  is  to  be  there  ! 

—  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Mills. 


JERUSALEM,   MY   HAPPY   HOME.1 

JERUSALEM,  my  happy  home, 
^      Name  ever  dear  to  me  ! 
When  shall  my  labors  have  an  end 
In  joy  and  peace,  in  thee  ? 

When  shall  these  eyes  thy  heaven-built  walls 

And  pearly  gates  behold? 
Thy  bulwarks  with  salvation  strong, 

And  streets  of  shining  gold  ? 

Oh,  when,  thou  city  of  my  God, 

Shall  I  thy  courts  ascend, 
Where  congregations  ne'er  break  up, 

And  Sabbaths  have  no  end  ? 

There  happier  bowers  than  Eden's  bloom, 

Nor  sin  nor  sorrow  know : 
Blest  seats  !  through  rude  and  stormy  scenes 

I  onward  press  to  you. 


Note  2. 


59 


<i-0> 


T£> 


{Tearless  Xanfc, 


Why  should  I  shrink  at  pain  and  woe, 

Or  feel  at  death  dismay  ? 
I  Ve  Canaan's  goodly  land  in  view, 

And  realms  of  endless  day. 

Apostles,  martyrs,  prophets,  there 

Around  my  Saviour  stand  ; 
And  soon  my  friends  in  Christ  below 

Will  join  the  glorious  band. 

Jerusalem,  my  happy  home  ! 

My  soul  still  pants  for  thee  ; 
Then  shall  my  labors  have  an  end, 

When  I  thy  joys  shall  see. 
1790.  —  Eckington  Collection* 


MY  AIN   COUNTREE. 

But  now  they  desire  a  better  country,  that  is,  an  heavenly. —  Heb. 
ii  :i6. 

T  'M  far  frae  my  name,  an'  I  'm  weary  aftenwhiles, 

*     For  the  langed-for  hame-bringing,  an'  my  Father's 

welcome  smiles ; 

I  '11  ne'er  be  fu'  content,  until  mine  een  do  see 
The  shining  gates  o'  heaven  an'  my  ain  countree. 

The  earth  is  flecked  wi'  flowers,  mony-tinted,  fresh,  an' 

gay, 

The  birdies  warble  blithely,  for  my  Father  made  them 

sae; 
But  these  sights  an'  these  soun's  will  as  naething  be  to 

me, 
When  I  hear  the  angels  singin'  in  my  ain  countree. 

60 


J 


longings  for  1bea\>en. 

I  've  his  gude  word  of  promise  that  some  gladsome  day 

the  King 

To  his  ain  royal  palace  his  banished  hame  will  bring : 
Wi'  een  an*  wi'  hearts  rurmin'  ower,  we  shall  see 
The  King  in  his  beauty  in  our  ain  countree. 


My  sins  hae  been  mony,  an*  my  sorrows  hae  been  sair, 
But  there  they  '11  never  vex   me,  nor  be  remembered 

mair; 
His  bluid  has  made  me  white,  his  hand  shall  dry  mine 

e'e, 
When  he  brings  me  hame  at  last,  to  my  ain  countree. 

Like  a  bairn  to  its  mither,  a  wee  birdie  to  its  nest, 
I  wad  fain  be  ganging  noo  unto  my  Saviour's  breast  ; 
For  he  gathers  in  his   bosom    witless,   worthless   lambs 

like  me, 
And  carries  them  himseP  to  his  ain  countree. 


He's  faithful  that   hath   promised,   he'll   surely   come 

again, 

He  '11  keep  his  tryst  wi'  me,  at  what  hour  I  dinna  ken  ; 
But  he  bids  me  still  to  wait,  an'  ready  aye  to  be, 
To  gang  at  ony  moment  to  my  ain  countree. 

So  I  'm  watching  aye,  an'  singin'  o'  my  hame  as  I  wait, 
For  the  soun'ing  o'  his  footfa'  this  side  the  shining  gate  ; 
God  gie  his  grace  to  ilk  ane  wha  listens  noo  to  me, 
That  we  a'  may  gang  in  gladness  to  our  ain  countree. 

—  Mary  Lee  Demarest. 


61 


70 


{Tearless 


THOU   KNOWEST. 


THOU  knowest,  O  my  Father  !    Why  should  I 
Weary  high  heaven  with  restless  prayers  and  tears  ? 
Thou  knowest  all  !     My  heart's  unuttered  cry 

Hath  soared  beyond  the  stars  and  reached  thine  ears. 

Thou  knowest,  —  ah,  Thou  knowest  !    Then  what  need, 
O  loving  God,  to  tell  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  with  persistent  iteration  plead 

As  one  who  crieth  at  some  close"  d  door? 


"  Tease  not  !  "  we  mothers  to  our  children  say,  — 

"  Our  wiser  love  will  grant  whate'er  is  best." 
Shall  we,  thy  children,  run  to  thee  alway, 
Begging  for  this  and  that  in  wild  unrest  ? 

I  dare  not  clamor  at  the  heavenly  gate, 

Lest  I  should  lose  the  high,  sweet  strains  within  ; 

O  Love  divine  !     I  can  but  stand  and  wait 
Till  Perfect  Wisdom  bids  me  enter  in. 

—  Julia  C.  R.  Dorr. 


II. 


BMIorimaee  to  Ibeaven 


Far  o'er  yon  horizon 

Rise  the  city  towers, 
Where  our  God  abideth  ; 

That  fair  home  is  ours. 
Flash  the  streets  with  jasper, 

Shine  the  gates  with  gold ; 
Flows  the  gladdening  river 

Shedding  joys  untold; 
Thither,  onward  thither, 

In  the  Spirit's  might ; 
Pilgrims  to  your  country, 

Forward  into  Light ! 

—  Rev.  Henry  Alford,  D.D. 


63 


For  we  are  strangers  before  thee,  and  sojourners,  as  all  our 
fathers  were :  our  days  on  the  earth  are  as  a  shadow,  and  there  is 
no  abiding.  —  /  Chron.  29  :  15. 

Having  confessed  that  they  were  strangers  and  pilgrims  on  the 
earth.  For  they  that  say  such  things  make  it  manifest  that  they 
are  seeking  after  a  country.  —  Heb.  u  :  13, 14. 


pilgrimage  to  Ibeaven* 


THE   JOURNEY. 

DOES  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way? 
Yes,  to  the  very  end. 

Will  the  day's  journey  take  the  whole  long  day? 
From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  the  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labor  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yes,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

—  Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


WHAT  WE   BRING. 

LORD  !  leadeth  not  this  desert  land 
To  our  bright  home  with  thee  ? 
Dost  Thou  not  mean  thy  pilgrim  band 
The  Golden  Gates  to  see  ? 

65 


<CU> 


fearless 


Yet  may  we  carry  to  our  home 

Gifts  in  the  desert  given  ; 
Thou  would'st  not  have  Thy  pilgrims  come 

All  empty  to  thy  heaven. 

Bright  angels  !  on  your  store  alone 

We  shall  not  need  to  live  ; 
We  bring  you  something  of  our  own, 

Our  God's  dear  gifts  we  give. 

We  bring  the  strength  by  Him  conferred 

Unto  the  heavenly  host  ; 
We  bring  the  shame  for  him  incurred 

To  be  our  endless  boast  ; 

We  bring  the  wounds  on  earth  that  bled 

To  have  sweet  healing  given  ; 
We  bring  the  tears  on  earth  we  shed 

To  find  them  smiles  in  heaven. 

Your  burning  love  the  flame  we  lend 
That  here  so  humbly  burned  ; 

And  with  your  awful  love  we  blend 
The  love  on  earth  we  learned. 

We  bring  you  each  endeavor  fair 
That  made  earth's  darkness  shine  ; 

Each  triumph  o'er  the  foe  ye  share, 
Each  victory  divine. 

Each  precious,  pure  delight  that  made 

The  Vale  of  Tears  less  sad, 
Doth  help  the  joys  that  never  fade, 

Doth  make  the  angels  glad. 

66 


BMlsrfmage  to  Deaven, 


O  happy  golden  hours  below  ! 

Your  glory  hath  not  gone  : 
The  grateful  years  eternal  flow 

More  bright  because  ye  shone. 

On  earth  we  sing  our  heavenly  songs, 

With  holy  fire  we  burn ; 
O  golden  harps  !  O  angel  tongues  ! 

Our  strains  ye  too  may  learn. 

Dear  Lord  !  whose  grace  on  earth  we  taste, 

Whose  glory  down  doth  come, 
Thou  meanest  not  these  gifts  for  waste, 

May  we  not  bear  them  home? 

May  we  not,  richly  laden,  make 

The  wealth  of  heaven  the  more, 
And  bringing  gifts  divine,  partake 

The  sweet  celestial  store  ? 

—  Thomas  H.  Gill. 


"HOW   CAN    WE   KNOW  THE   WAY?" 

PROM  out  this  dim  and  gloomy  hollow, 

Where  hang  the  cold  clouds  heavily, 
Could  I  but  gain  the  clew  to  follow, 
How  blessed  would  the  journey  be  ! 

Aloft,  I  see  a  fair  dominion,  . 

Through  time  and  change,  all  vernal  still ; 
But  where  the  power,  and  what  the  pinion, 

To  gain  the  ever-blooming  hill  ? 

67 


Afar,  I  hear  the  music  ringing, 

The  lulling  sounds  of  heaven's  repose ; 

And  the  light  gales  are  downward  bringing 
The  sweets  of  flowers  the  mountain  knows. 

I  see  the  fruit,  all  golden  glowing, 

Beckon,  the  glassy  leaves  between  :  — 

And  o'er  the  winds  that  there  are  blowing, 
Nor  blight  nor  winter's  wrath  hath  been. 

Ye  suns  that  shine  forever  yonder, 

O'er  fields  that  fade  not,  sweet  to  flee  ; 

The  very  zephyrs  there  that  wander, 
How  healing  must  their  breathing  be  ! 
—  Schiller.     Tr.  by  Sir  Edward  Bulwer-Lytton. 


LIFE'S  SHADY   PATH. 

I  AM  wandering  down  life's  shady  path, 
Slowly,  slowly,  wandering  down ; 
I  am  wandering  down  life's  rugged  path, 
Slowly,  slowly,  wandering  down. 

Morn,  with  its  store  of  buds  and  dew, 

Lies  far  behind  me  now ; 
Morn,  with  its  wealth  of  song  and  light, 

Lies  far  behind  me  now. 

'T  is  the  mellow  flush  of  sunset  now, 
'T  is  the  shadow  and  the  cloud  ; 

'T  is  the  dimness  of  the  dying  eve, 
'T  is  the  shadow  and  the  cloud. 

68 


BMlgrfmage  to  Ibeaven, 


'T  is  the  dreamy  haze  of  twilight  now, 
'T  is  the  hour  of  silent  trust ; 

'T  is  the  solemn  hue  of  fading  skies, 
'T  is  the  time  of  tranquil  trust. 

The  pleasant  heights  of  breezy  life, 
The  pleasant  heights  are  past ; 

The  sunny  slopes  of  buoyant  life, 
The  sunny  slopes  are  past 

I  shall  rest  in  yon  low  valley  soon, 
There  to  sleep  my  toil  away ; 

I  shall  rest  in  yon  sweet  valley  soon, 
There  to  sleep  my  tears  away. 

One  little  hour  will  soothe  away 
Time's  months  of  care  and  pain ; 

One  quiet  hour  will  dream  away 
Time's  years  of  care  and  pain. 

Laid  side  by  side  with  those  I  love, 
How  calm  that  rest  shall  be  ! 

Laid  side  by  side  with  those  I  love, 
How  soft  that  sleep  shall  be  ! 

I  shall  rise  and  put  on  glory 

When  the  great  morn  shall  dawn ; 

I  shall  rise  and  put  on  beauty 
When  the  glad  morn  shall  dawn. 

I  shall  mount  to  yon  fair  city, 
The  dwelling  of  the  blest ; 

I  shall  enter  yon  bright  city, 
The  palace  of  the  blest. 

69 


fearless  Xanfc. 

I  shall  meet  the  many  parted  ones, 

In  that  one  home  of  joy ; 
Lost  love  forever  found  again 

In  that  dear  home  of  joy. 

We  have  shared  our  earthly  sorrow, 

Each  with  the  other  here  ; 
We  shall  share  our  heavenly  gladness, 

Each  with  the  other  there. 

We  have  mingled  tears  together, 

We  shall  mingle  smiles  and  song ; 
We  have  mingled  sighs  together, 

We  shall  mingle  smiles  and  song. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


PER   PACEM   AD   LUCEM. 

I  DO  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be 
A  pleasant  road ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  thou  wouldst  take  from  me 
Aught  of  its  load  ; 

I  do  not  ask  that  flowers  should  always  spring 

Beneath  my  feet ; 
I  know  too  well  the  poison  and  the  sting 

Of  things  too  sweet. 

For  one  thing  only,  Lord,  dear  Lord,  I  plead :  — 

Lead  me  aright, 

Though  strength  should  falter,  and  though  heart  should 
bleed, 

Through  Peace  to  Light ! 

70 


I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  thou  shouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here  : 
Give  but  the  ray  of  peace,  that  1  may  tread 

Without  a  fear.     Page  71. 

THE  IMMORTAL 


HOPE. 


£be  pilgrimage  to  t>eav>en, 

I  do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  thou  shouldst  shed 

Full  radiance  here ; 
Give  but  the  ray  of  peace,  that  I  may  tread 

Without  a  fear. 

I  do  not  ask  my  cross  to  understand, 

My  way  to  see ;  — 
Better  in  darkness  just  to  feel  Thy  hand, 

And  follow  thee. 

Joy  is  like  restless  day ;  but  peace  divine 

Like  quiet  night  : 
Lead  me,  O  Lord,  till  perfect  day  shall  shine, 

Through  Peace  to  Light. 

—  Adelaide  Anne  Procter. 


THE   LAST   HOUR. 

TF  I  were  told  that  I  must  die  to-morrow, 

That  the  next  sun 
Which  sinks  should  bear  me  past  all  fear  and  sorrow 

For  any  one,  — 
All  the  fight  fought,  all  the  short  journey  through, 

What  should  I  do? 

I  do  not  think  that  I  should  shrink  or  falter, 

But  just  go  on, 
Doing  my  work,  nor  change,  nor  seek  to  alter 

That  which  is  gone ; 
But  rise  and  move,  and  love  and  smile  and  pray 

For  one  more  day. 


Sbe  fearless 


And  lying  down  at  night  for  a  last  sleeping, 

Say  in  that  ear 
Which  hearkens  ever :  "  Lord,  within  thy  keeping, 

How  should  I  fear? 
And  when  to-morrow  brings  thee  nearer  still, 

Do  thou  Thy  will." 

I  might  not  sleep  for  awe ;  but  peaceful,  tender, 

My  soul  would  lie 
All  the  night  long ;  and  when  the  morning  splendor 

Flushed  o'er  the  sky, 
I  think  that  I  could  smile,  —  could  calmly  say, 

"  It  is  His  day." 

But  if  a  wondrous  hand  from  the  blue  yonder 

Held  out  a  scroll, 
On  which  my  life  was  writ,  and  I  with  wonder 

Beheld  unroll 
To  a  long  century's  end  its  mystic  clew, 

What  should  I  do? 

What  could  I  do,  O  blessed  Guide  and  Master, 

Other  than  this : 
Still  to  go  on  as  now,  not  slower,  faster, 

Nor  fear  to  miss 
The  road,  although  so  very  long  it  be, 

While  led  by  thee? 

Step  after  step,  feeling  Thee  close  beside  me, 

Although  unseen, 
Through  thorns,  through  flowers,  whether  the   tempest 

hide  thee, 
Or  heavens  serene, 
72 


ttbe  pilgrimage  to  Deaven, 

Assured  thy  faithfulness  cannot  betray, 
Thy  love  decay. 

I  may  not  know,  my  God ;  no  hand  revealeth 

Thy  counsels  wise  ; 
Along  the  path  a  deepening  shadow  stealeth ; 

No  voice  replies 
To  all  my  questioning  thought,  the  time  to  tell ; 

And  it  is  well. 

Let  me  keep  on,  abiding  and  unfearing 

Thy  will  always, 
Through  a  long  century's  ripening  fruition, 

Or  a  short  day's ; 
Thou  canst  not  come  too  soon ;  and  I  can  wait, 

If  thou  come  late. 
1872.  — Susan  Coolidge. 


A  LITTLE   WHILE  THE   VIGIL   KEEPING. 

OH,  for  the  peace  which  floweth  as  a  river, 
Making  life's  desert  places  bloom  and  smile  ! 
Oh,  for  the  faith  to  grasp  heaven's  bright  "  forever  " 
Amid  the  shadows  of  earth's  "  little  while  "  ! 

A  little  while  for  patient  vigil  keeping, 

To  face  the  stern,  to  battle  with  the  strong ; 

A  litttle  while  to  sow  the  seed  with  weeping, 

Then  bind  the  sheaves  and  sing  the  harvest  song. 

A  little  while  to  wear  the  weeds  of  sadness, 
To  pace  with  weary  steps  through  noisy  ways  j 

Then  to  pour  forth  the  fragrant  oil  of  gladness, 
And  clasp  the  girdle  round  the  robe  of  praise. 
73 


SI^- 


fearless  ILanD. 


A  little  while  midst  shadow  and  delusion 
To  strive  by  faith  love's  mysteries  to  spell  : 

Then  read  each  dark  enigma's  bright  solution, 

Then  hail  sight's  verdict—  "  He  doeth  all  things  well." 

A  little  while  the  earthen  pitcher  taking, 

To  wayside  brooks  from  far-off  fountains  fed  ; 

Then  the  cool  lip  its  thirst  forever  slaking 
Beside  the  fullness  of  the  fountain-head. 

A  little  while  to  keep  the  oil  from  failing, 
A  little  while  faith's  flickering  lamp  to  trim, 

And  then,  the  Bridegroom's  coming  footsteps  hailing, 
To  haste  to  meet  him,  with  the  bridal  hymn. 

And  he  who  is  himself  the  Gift  and  Giver  — 

The  future  glory  and  the  present  smile, 
With  the  bright  promise  of  the  glad  forever 

Will  light  the  shadows  of  the  "  little  while." 

—  Jane  Crewdson. 

THE   GOLDEN    STREET. 
toil  is  very  long,  and  I  am  tired  : 
O  Father,  I  am  weary  of  the  way  ! 
Give  me  that  rest  I  have  so  long  desired  ; 

Bring  me  that  Sabbath's  cool  refreshing  day, 
And  let  the  fever  of  my  world-worn  feet 
Press  the  cool  smoothness  of  the  golden  street. 

Tired  —  very  tired  !     And  I  at  times  have  seen, 
When  the  far  pearly  gates  were  open  thrown 

For  those  who  walked  no  more  with  me,  the  green 
Sweet  foliage  of  the  trees  that  there  alone 

At  last  wave  over  those  whose  world-worn  feet 

Press  the  cool  smoothness  of  the  golden  street. 
74 


ipilgrtmase  to  Ibeaven. 


When  the  gates  open  and  before  they  close  — 
Sad  hours  but  holy  —  I  have  watched  the  tide 

Whose  living  crystal  there  forever  flows 
Before  the  throne,  and  sadly  have  I  sighed 

To  think  how  long  until  my  world-worn  feet 

Press  the  cool  smoothness  of  the  golden  street. 

They  shall  not  wander  from  that  blessed  way  ; 

Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  weariness,  nor  sin, 
Nor  any  clouds  in  that  eternal  day, 

Trouble  them  more  who  once  have  entered  in  ; 
But  all  is  rest  to  them  whose  world-worn  feet 
Press  the  cool  smoothness  of  the  golden  street. 

Thus  the  gates  close  and  I  behold  no  more, 
Though  as  I  walk,  they  open  oftener  now 

For  those  who  leave  me  and  go  on  before  ; 
And  I  am  lonely  also  while  I  bow 

And  think  of  those  dear  souls  whose  world-worn  feet 

Press  the  cool  smoothness  of  the  golden  street. 

Tired  —  very  tired  —  but  I  will  patient  be, 

Nor  will  I  murmur  at  the  weary  way  : 
I  too  shall  walk  beside  the  crystal  sea, 

And  pluck  the  ripe  fruit  all  that  God-lit  day, 
When  thou,  O  Lord,  shalt  let  my  feet 
Press  the  cool  smoothness  of  the  golden  street. 

—  William  O.  Stoddard. 

OUR  PATHWAY. 

OE  the  pathway  smooth  or  thorny, 
*-*     Dark  with  storms  or  bright, 
All  along  life's  changeful  journey, 
Day  and  night  ; 

75 


O 


Geatleas  %ano. 


Through  the  desert,  wending  lowly., 

Or  with  lov'd  ones  nigh  ; 
Bread  to  spare,  or  given  only 

As  we  cry ; 

Wayworn  in  its  weary  stages, 

Or  by  crystal  springs, 
Where  the  smitten  Rock  of  Ages 

Comfort  brings : 

Onward  still  —  come  joy  or  sorrow, 

Blossom  or  decay ; 
Knowing  nothing  of  to-morrow, 

Calm  to-day. 

God  will  be  our  Guide  for  ever. 

To  our  latest  breath, 
Through  the  depths  of  Jordan's  river, 

Over  death. 

Over  death,  among  the  meadows 

Where  His  own  are  led, 
And  in  perfect  day  the  shadows 

All  have  fled. 

Over  death  —  all  told  the  story 

Of  our  earthly  strife, 
There  to  prove  in  Canaan's  glory 

Life  of  life. 

—  Edward  Henry  Bickersteth. 

FAR   FROM   THE   DISCORD   LOUD. 

FAR  from  the  discord  loud, 
Far  from  the  striving  crowd, 
Far  from  the  din, 
76 


Cbe  pilgrimage  to  t>eaven, 


Far  from  the  burning  tears, 
Far  from  the  crushing  fears, 
Far  from  the  sin. 

Up  beyond  all  toil  and  care, 
Far  from  the  tainted  air, 

Far  from  all  pain, 
Out  of  the  reach  of  crime, 
Far  from  this  changing  clime, 

We  shall  remain. 

Where  the  redeemed  and  blest 
Ever  shall  sweetly  rest, 

No  more  to  roam ; 
Where  the  curse  dwelleth  not, 
Sorrow  is  all  forgot  — 

There  is  our  home. 

Where  the  joy-founts  are  stirred, 
Where  the  harp  note  is  heard, 

Where  the  palms  wave, 
Where  the  white-robed  shall  glide. 
Where  the  death  dews  are  dried, 

Where  is  no  grave. 

There  is  our  glorious  home  : 
Why  do  we  longer  roam 

Far  from  its  peace  ? 
Soon  may  the  hill  be  gained, 
Soon  be  the  rest  obtained, 

Soon  the  toil  cease. 

Brother,  press  onward  then  : 
Why  should  we  linger  when 
Home  is  in  sight? 

77 


fearless  XanD. 


L 


On  while  the  day  is  here, 
On  while  the  way  is  clear, 
On  ere  the  night ! 

—  Marianne  Farningham. 

LEAD,   KINDLY  LIGHT.1 

EAD,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  thou  me  on  ; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  thou  me  on ; 

Keep  thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  thou 

Shouldst  lead  me  on  ; 
I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path ;  but  now 

Lead  thou  me  on  ! 

I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 
Pride  ruled  my  will.     Remember  not  past  years  ! 

So  long  thy  power  has  blest  me,  sure  it  still 

Will  lead  me  on 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone, 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile  ! 

— John  Henry  Newman. 


At  sea,  Ji 


1833- 


GOD'S   OWN   SMILE. 


WHAT  then?     Why  then  another  pilgrim  song; 
And  then,  a  hush  of  rest,  divinely  granted  ; 
And  then,  a  thirsty  stage  j  (ah,  me,  so  long  !) 
And  then,  a  brook  just  where  it  most  is  wanted. 

1  Note  3. 

78 


Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom, 
Lead  thou  me  on.     Page  78. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


BMlgrfmage  to  Ibeaven. 


What  then  ?    The  pitching  of  the  evening  tent  ; 

And  then,  perchance,  a  pillow  rough  and  thorny  ; 
And  then,  some  sweet  and  tender  message,  sent 

To  cheer  the  faint  one  for  to-morrow's  journey. 

What  then  ?    The  wailing  of  the  midnight  wind  ; 

A  feverish  sleep  ;  a  heart  oppressed  and  aching  ; 
And  then,  a  little  water-  cruse  to  find 

Close  by  my  pillow,  ready  for  my  waking. 

What  then  ?    I  am  not  careful  to  inquire  ; 

I  know  there  will  be  tears,  and  fears,  and  sorrow  ; 
And  then  a  loving  Saviour  drawing  nigher, 

And  saying,  "  I  will  answer  for  the  morrow." 

What  then  ?     For  all  my  sins  His  pardoning  grace  ; 

For  all  my  wants  and  woes  his  lovingkindness  ; 
For  darkest  shades,  the  shining  of  God's  face, 

And  Christ's  own  hand  to  lead  me  in  my  blindness. 

What  then  ?    A  shadowy  valley,  lone  and  dim  ; 

And  then,  a  deep  and  darkly  rolling  river  ; 
And  then,  a  flood  of  light  —  a  seraph's  hymn, 

And  God's  own  smile,  forever  and  forever. 

—  Jane  Crewdson. 


FIRST  THE   SORROWFUL,   AND   THEN   THE 
GLAD. 

"T1  is  first  the  true,  and  then  the  beautiful ; 

*       Not  first  the  beautiful  and  then  the  true  : 
First  the  wild  moor,  with  rock  and  reed  and  pool, 

Then  the  gay  garden  rich  in  scent  and  hue. 

79 


fearless  XanO. 


Not  first  the  glad,  and  then  the  sorrowful  ; 

But  first  the  sorrowful,  and  then  the  glad  : 
Tears  for  a  day,  for  earth  of  tears  is  full  ; 

Then  we  forget  that  we  were  ever  sad. 

Not  first  the  bright,  and  after  that  the  dark  ; 

But  first  the  dark,  and  after  that  the  bright  : 
First  the  thick  cloud,  and  then  the  rainbow's  arc  ; 

First  the  dark  grave,  then  resurrection  light. 

'T  is  first  the  night  —  stern  night  of  storm  and  war, 
Long  night  of  heavy  clouds  and  veiled  skies  ; 

Then  the  fair  sparkle  of  the  Morning  Star, 
That  bids  the  saint  awake,  and  day  arise. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


MY   REST   IS   NOT   HERE. 

MY  rest  is  in  heaven,  my  rest  is  not  here ; 
Then  why  should  I  murmur  when  trials  are  near? 
Be  hushed,  my  dark  spirit ;  the  worst  that  can  come 
But  shortens  thy  journey,  and  hastens  thee  home. 

It  is  not  for  me  to  be  seeking  my  bliss, 
And  building  my  hopes  in  a  region  like  this  • 
I  look  for  a  city  which  hands  have  not  piled, 
I  pant  for  a  country  by  sin  undefiled. 

The  thorn  and  the  thistle  around  me  may  grow,  — 
I  would  not  lie  down  upon  roses  below ; 
I  ask  not  my  portion,  I  seek  not  a  rest, 
Till  I  find  them  forever  in  Jesus'  breast. 

So 


pilgrimage  to 


Afflictions  may  damp  me,  they  cannot  destroy  ; 
One  glimpse  of  His  love  turns  them  all  into  joy, 
And  the  bitterest  tears,  if  he  smile  but  on  them, 
Like  the  dew  in  the  sunshine,  grow  diamond  and  gem. 

Let  doubt,  then,  and  danger,  my  progress  oppose  ; 
They  only  make  heaven  more  sweet  at  the  close. 
Come  joy  or  come  sorrow,  whate'er  may  befall, 
An  hour  with  my  God  will  make  up  for  them  all. 

A  scrip  on  my  back,  and  a  staff  in  my  hand, 
I  '11  march  on  in  haste  in  an  enemy's  land  ; 
The  road  may  be  rough,  but  it  cannot  be  long, 
And  I  '11  smooth  it  with  hope  and  cheer  it  with  song  ! 

—  Henry  Francis  Lyte. 


"I   SHALL  BE   SATISFIED." 

IVToT  here  !  not  here  !  not  where  the  sparkling  waters 

Fade  into  mocking  sands  as  we  draw  near ; 
Where  in  the  wilderness  each  footstep  falters  — 
I  shall  be  satisfied  —  but  oh  !  not  here. 

Not  here  !  where  every  dream  of  bliss  deceives  us, 
Where  the  worn  spirit  never  gains  its  goal : 

Where,  haunted  ever  by  the  thoughts  that  grieve  us, 
Across  us  floods  of  bitter  memory  roll. 

There  is  a  land  where  every  pulse  is  thrilling 
With  rapture  earth's  sojourners  may  not  know, 

Where  heaven's  repose  the  weary  heart  is  stilling 
And  peacefully  life's  time-tossed  currents  flow. 

81 


<ux 


JO 


Gearless  5LanD. 


Far  out  of  sight,  while  yet  the  flesh  infolds  us, 
Lies  the  fair  country  where  our  hearts  B  bide, 

And  of  its  bliss  is  nought  more  wondrous  told  us, 
Than  these  few  words,  "  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

Satisfied  !  satisfied  !     The  spirit's  yearning 

For  sweet  companionship  with  kindred  minds  — 

The  silent  love  that  here  meets  no  returning  — 
The  inspiration  which  no  language  finds  — 

Shall  they  be  satisfied  ?  the  soul's  vague  longing  — 
The  aching  void  which  nothing  earthly  fills  ? 

O  !  what  desires  upon  my  soul  are  thronging 
As  I  look  upward  to  the  heavenly  hills. 

Thither  my  weak  and  weary  steps  are  tending  — 
Saviour  and  Lord  !  with  thy  frail  child  abide  ! 

Guide  me  toward  home,  where  all  my  wanderings  ending, 
I  then  shall  see  thee,  and  "  be  satisfied." 

—  Anon. 


"SUFFER  THEM  TO   COME  TO   ME." 

"  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not :  for  of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  God." 

A  LL  along  the  mighty  ages, 
•**     All  adown  the  solemn  time, 
They  have  taken  up  their  homeward 

March  to  that  serener  clime, 
Where  the  watching,  waiting  angels 

Lead  them  from  the  shadow  dim, 
To  the  brightness  of  His  presence 

Who  has  called  them  unto  him. 

82 


But  'tis  Jesus  who  has  called  them 
'Suffer,  and  forbid  them  not."    Page  83. 

THK  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


pilgrimage  to  Ibeaven, 


They  are  going  —  only  going  — 

Out  of  pain  and  into  bliss  — 
Out  of  sad  and  sinful  weakness 

Into  perfect  holiness. 
Snowy  brows  —  no  care  shall  shade  them  ; 

Bright  eyes  —  tears  shall  never  dim  ; 
Rosy  lips  —  no  time  shall  fade  them  ; 

Jesus  called  them  unto  him. 

Little  hearts  forever  stainless  — 

Little  hands  as  pure  as  they  — 
Little  feet  by  angels  guided 

Never  a  forbidden  way  ! 
They  are  going,  ever  going  ! 

Leaving  many  a  lonely  spot  ; 
But  'tis  Jesus  who  has  called  them  — 

"  Suffer,  and  forbid  them  not." 

—  Lyra  Anglicana. 

EVENING   BRINGS  US  HOME. 
T  TPON  the  hills  the  wind  is  sharp  and  cold  ; 
^     The  sweet  young  grasses  wither  on  the  wold  ; 
And  we,  O  Lord,  have  wandered  from  thy  fold, 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 

Among  the  mists  we  stumbled,  and  the  rocks 
Where  the  brown  lichen  whitens,  and  the  fox 
Watches  the  straggler  from  the  scattered  flocks  ; 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 

The  sharp  thorns  prick  us,  and  our  tender  feet 
Are  cut  and  bleeding,  and  the  lambs  repeat 
Their  pitiful  complaints  ;  oh,  rest  is  sweet 
When  evening  brings  us  home  ! 


fearless  XanD. 


We  have  been  wounded  by  the  hunter's  darts  ; 
Our  eyes  are  very  heavy,  and  our  hearts 
Search  for  Thy  coming  :  when  the  light  departs 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

The  darkness  gathers.     Through  the  gloom  no  star 
Rises  to  guide  us.    We  have  wandered  far. 
Without  Thy  lamp  we  know  not  where  we  are  : 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

The  clouds  are  round  us  and  the  snowdrifts  thicken, 
O  thou,  dear  Shepherd,  leave  us  not  to  sicken 
In  the  waste  night  :  our  tardy  footsteps  quicken  ; 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

—  Anon. 


FATHER,  TAKE   MY   HAND. 

I.      THE  APPEAL. 

'"FHE  way  is  dark,  my  Father  !     Cloud  upon  cloud 
*•       Is  gathering  quickly  o'er  my  head,  and  loud 
The  thunders  roll  above  me.     See,  I  stand 
Like  one  bewildered.     Father,  take  my  hand, 
And  through  the  gloom 
Lead  safely  home 
Thy  child  ! 

The  day  goes  fast,  my  Father,  and  the  night 
Is  drawing  darkly  down.  My  faithless  sight 
Sees  ghostly  visions ;  fears,  a  spectral  band, 
Encompass  me.  O  Father,  take  my  hand 

And  from  the  night 

Lead  up  to  light 
Thy  child  ! 

84 


tlbe  pilgrimage  to  f>ea\>en, 

The  way  is  long,  my  Father,  and  my  soul 
Longs  for  the  rest  and  quiet  of  the  goal  : 
While  yet  I  journey  through  this  weary  land, 
Keep  me  from  wandering.     Father,  take  my  hand  ; 

Lead  in  the  way 

To  endless  day 

Thy  child  ! 

The  path  is  rough,  my  Father.     Many  a  thorn 
Hath  pierced  me,  and  my  weary  feet,  all  torn 
And  bleeding,  mark  the  way ;  yet  thy  command 
Bids  me  press  forward.     Father,  take  my  hand ; 

Then,  safe  and  blest, 

Lead  up  to  rest 

Thy  child  ! 

The  throng  is  great,  my  Father.     Many  a  doubt 
And  fear  of  danger  compass  me  about, 
And  foes  oppress  me  sore.     I  cannot  stand 
Or  go  alone.     O  Father,  take  my  hand, 

And  through  the  throng 

Lead  safe  along 

Thy  child ! 

The  cross  is  heavy,  Father.     I  have  borne 
It  long,  and  still  do  bear  it.     Let  my  worn 
And  fainting  spirit  rise  to  that  blest  land 
Where  crowns  are  given.     Father,  take  my  hand, 

And  reaching  down, 

Lead  to  the  crown 
Thy  child  ! 

II.      THE   GRACIOUS  ANSWER. 

The  way  is  dark,  my  child,  but  leads  to  light. 
I  would  not  always  have  thee  walk  by  sight. 

85 


d>0 


ZTbc  Gearlees  XanD. 


My  dealings  now  thou  canst  not  understand. 
I  meant  it  so ;  but  I  will  take  thy  hand 

And  through  the  gloom 

Lead  safely  home 
My  child ! 

The  day  goes  fast,  my  child.     But  is  the  night 
Darker  to  me  than  day  ?     In  me  is  light ! 
Keep  close  to  me,  and  every  spectral  band 
Of  fears  shall  vanish.     I  will  take  thy  hand 

And  through  the  night 

Lead  up  to  light 
My  child  ! 

The  way  is  long,  my  child  ;  but  it  shall  be 

Not  one  step  longer  than  is  best  for  thee ; 

And  thou  shalt  know  at  last,  when  thou  shalt  stand 

Safe  at  the  goal,  how  I  did  take  thy  hand 

And  quick  and  straight 

Lead  to  heaven's  gate 
My  child ! 

The  path  is  rough,  my  child ;  but  oh,  how  sweet 
Will  be  the  rest,  for  weary  pilgrims  meet, 
When  thou  shalt  reach  the  borders  of  that  land 
To  which  I  lead  thee  as  I  take  thy  hand, 

And  safe  and  blest 

With  me  shall  rest 
My  child ! 


The  throng  is  great,  my  child ;  but  at  thy  side 
Thy  Father  walks ;  then  be  not  terrified, 
86 


OBI 


One  who  bore  a  heavier  cross  for  thee.     Page  87. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPK. 


pilgrimage  to  Ibeavetu 


For  I  am  with  thee,  will  thy  foes  command 
To  let  thee  freely  pass,  will  take  thy  hand, 

And  through  the  throng 

Lead  safe  along 
My  child  ! 

The  cross  is  heavy,  child  ;  yet  there  was  One 
Who  bore  a  heavier  for  thee  —  my  Son, 
My  Well-beloved.    For  him  bear  thine,  and  stand 
With  him  at  last,  and  from  thy  Father's  hand, 
Thy  cross  laid  down, 
Receive  a  crown, 
My  child  ! 

—  Rev.  Henry  N.  Cobb,  DJ). 


JESUS,  STILL  LEAD   ON. 

JESUS,  still  lead  on, 
^     Till  our  rest  be  won ; 
And  although  the  way  be  cheerless, 
We  will  follow,  calm  and  fearless ; 
Guide  us  by  thy  hand 
To  our  Fatherland. 

If  the  way  be  drear, 

If  the  foe  be  near, 
Let  not  faithless  fears  o'ertake  us, 
Let  not  faith  and  hope  forsake  us  ; 

For,  through  many  a  foe, 

To  our  home  we  go. 

87 


Sbe  fearless  ILanD. 


1721, 


When  we  seek  relief 

From  a  long-felt  grief, 
When  temptations  come  alluring, 
Make  us  patient  and  enduring ; 

Show  us  that  bright  shore 

Where  we  weep  no  more. 

Jesus,  still  lead  on, 
Till  our  rest  be  won ; 
Heavenly  Leader,  still  direct  us, 
Still  support,  console,  protect  us, 
Till  we  safely  stand 
In  our  Fatherland. 

—  Nicolaus  Ludwig  Zinzendorf.     Tr. 
by  Miss  Jane  Borthwick. 


THE  WAY  OF  THY   FEET. 


HEERFUL,  O  Lord,  at  thy  command 

I  bind  my  sandals  on, 
I  take  my  pilgrim's  staff  in  hand, 
And  go  to  seek  the  better  land, 
The  way  thy  feet  have  gone. 

I  oft  shall  think,  when  on  my  way, 

Some  bitter  grief  I  meet, 
"  This  path  hath  echoed  with  His  moan, 
And  every  rude  and  flinty  stone 

Hath  bruised  His  blessed  feet." 

Fainting  and  sad  along  the  road, 
Thou  layest  on  my  head 

88 


pilgrimage  to  Ibeaven. 


The  hands  they  fastened  to  the  tree, 
The  hands  that  paid  the  price  for  me, 
The  hands  that  brake  the  bread. 

Thou  whisperest  some  pleasant  word,  — 

I  catch  the  much-loved  tone  ; 
I  feel  thee  near,  my  gracious  Lord  ; 
I  know  thou  keepest  watch  and  ward, 

And  all  my  grief  is  gone. 

From  every  mountain's  rugged  peak 

The  far-off  land  I  view, 
And  from  its  fields  of  fadeless  bloom 
Come  breezes  laden  with  perfume, 

And  fan  my  weary  brow. 

There  peaceful  hills  and  holy  vales 

Sleep  in  eternal  day, 
While  rivers,  deep  and  silent,  glide 
'Twixt  meads  and  groves  on  either  side, 

Through  which  the  blessed  stray. 

There  He  abides  who  is  of  heaven 

The  loveliest  and  best  ; 
His  face,  when  shall  I  gaze  upon  ! 
Or  share  with  the  beloved  John 

The  pillow  of  His  breast  ! 

—  Anon. 

ANGELIC  SONGS  ARE   SWELLING. 
T  T  ARK  !  hark  !  my  soul,  angelic  songs  are  swelling 
•*•  *•     O'er  earth's  green   fields   and   ocean's  wave-beat 

shore, 

How  sweet  the  truth  those  blessed  strains  are  telling, 
Of  that  new  life,  when  sin  shall  be  no  more. 

89 


Darker  than  night  life's  shadows  fall  around  us, 
And  like  benighted  men  we  miss  our  mark : 

God  hides  himself,  and  grace  has  scarcely  found  us, 
Ere  death  finds  out  his  victims  in  the  dark. 

Onward  we  go,  for  still  we  hear  them  singing, 
"  Come,  weary  souls,  for  Jesus  bids  you  come," 

And  through  the  dark,  its  echoes  sweetly  ringing, 
The  music  of  the  Gospel  leads  us  home. 

Far,  far  away,  like  bells  at  evening  pealing, 
The  voice  of  Jesus  sounds  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  laden  souls  by  thousands  meekly  stealing, 
Kind  Shepherd,  turn  their  weary  steps  to  thee. 

Rest  comes  at  last,  though  life  be  long  and  dreary, 
The  day  must  dawn,  and  darksome  night  be  past, 

All  journeys  end  in  welcomes  to  the  weary, 

And  heaven,  the  heart's  true  home,  will  come  at  last. 
—  Frederick  William  Faber. 


•Come,  weary  souls,  for  Jesus  bids  you  come."     Page  90. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


III. 


ZCbe  (Bate  of  Ibeavem 


There  is  no  death.     What  seems  so  is  transition. 

This  life  of  mortal  breath 
Is  but  the  suburb  of  the  life  elysian, 

Whose  portal  we  call  Death. 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Did  He  not  to  his  followers  say, 
lam  the  Life,  the  Light,  the  Way  ? 

Yea,  and  still  from  the  heavens  he  saith, 

Thf  gate  of  life  is  the  gate  of  death. 

—  Phosbe  Gary. 


Then  shall  the  dust  return  to  the  earth  as  it  was :  and  the  spirit 
shall  return  unto  God  who  gave  it.  —  Eccl.  12  :  7. 

For  this  corruptible  must  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal 
must  put  on  immortality.  But  when  this  corruptible  shall  have  put 
on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortality,  then 
shall  come  to  pass  the  saying  that  is  written,  Death  is  swallowed  up 
in  victory.  O  death,  where  is  thy  victory?  O  death,  where  is  thy 
sting?—/  Cor.  15 : 53-55. 


Gate  of  1bea\>em 


PASSING  THE   GATE. 

INHERE  is  a  land  immortal, 
The  beautiful  of  lands ; 
Beside  its  ancient  portal 
A  silent  sentry  stands ; 
He  only  can  undo  it, 

And  open  wide  the  door ; 
And  mortals  who  pass  through  it 
Are  mortals  never  more. 

That  glorious  land  is  heaven, 

And  Death  the  sentry  grim ; 
The  Lord,  therefore,  has  given 

The  opening  keys  to  him ; 
And  ransomed  sinners,  sighing 

And  sorrowful  for  sin, 
Do  pass  the  gate  in  dying, 

And  freely  enter  in. 

Though  dark  and  drear  the  passage 

That  leadeth  to  the  gate, 
Yet  grace  comes  with  the  message 

To  souls  that  watch  and  wait ; 
And,  at  the  time  appointed, 

A  messenger  comes  down, 
And  leads  the  Lord's  anointed 

From  cross  to  glory's  crown. 

93 


Their  sighs  are  lost  in  singing, 

They  're  blessed  in  their  tears ; 
Their  journey  homeward  winging, 

They  leave  to  earth  their  fears ; 
Death  like  an  angel  seemeth ; 

"  We  welcome  thee,"  they  cry ; 
Their  face  with  glory  beameth ; 

T  is  life  for  them  to  die. 

—  Thomas  MacKellar. 


I'M  RETURNING,   NOT  DEPARTING. 

I'M  returning,  not  departing ; 
My  steps  are  homeward-bound ; 
I  quit  the  land  of  strangers, 
For  a  home  on  native  ground. 

I  am  rising,  and  not  setting  — 
This  is  not  night,  but  day ; 

Not  in  darkness,  but  in  sunshine, 
Like  a  star  I  fade  away. 

All  is  well  with  me  forever ; 

I  do  not  fear  to  go ; 
My  tide  is  but  beginning 

Its  bright  eternal  flow. 

I  am  leaving  only  shadows, 

For  the  true,  and  fair,  and  good ; 

I  must  not,  cannot  linger ; 
I  would  not,  if  I  could. 


This  is  not  Death's  dark  portal ; 

T  is  Life's  golden  gate  to  me ; 
Link  after  link  is  broken, 

And  I,  at  last,  am  free  ! 

I  am  going  to  the  angels, 

I  am  going  to  my  God ; 
I  know  the  hand  that  beckons, 

I  see  the  heavenly  road. 

Why  grieve  me  with  your  weeping? 

Your  tears  are  all  in  vain  : 
An  hour's  farewell,  beloved, 

And  we  shall  meet  again. 

Jesus,  thou  wilt  receive  me, 

And  welcome  me  above ; 
This  sunlight  which  now  fills  me, 

Is  thine  own  smile  of  love  ! 

— Horatius  Bonar. 


THE  TWO  ANGELS.1 

'T'wo  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death, 

Passed  o'er  our  village  as  the  morning  broke  ; 
The  dawn  was  on  their  faces,  and  beneath, 

The  somber  houses  hearsed  with  plumes  of  smoke. 

Their  attitude  and  aspect  were  the  same, 

Alike  their  features  and  their  robes  of  white ; 

But  one  was  crowned  with  amaranth,  as  with  flame, 
And  one  with  asphodels,  like  flakes  of  light. 

i  Note  4. 

95 


XanD. 


I  saw  them  pause  on  their  celestial  way ; 

Then  said  I,  with  deep  fear  and  doubt  oppressed, 
"  Beat  not  so  loud,  my  heart,  lest  thou  betray 

The  place  where  thy  beloved  are  at  rest !  " 

And  he  who  wore  the  crown  of  asphodels, 
Descending,  at  my  door  began  to  knock, 

And  my  soul  sank  within  me,  as  in  wells 

The  waters  sink  before  an  earthquake's  shock. 

I  recognized  the  nameless  agony, 

The  terror  and  the  tremor  and  the  pain, 

That  oft  before  had  filled  or  haunted  me, 

And  now  returned  with  threefold  strength  again. 

The  door  I  opened  to  my  heavenly  guest, 

And  listened,  for  I  thought  I  heard  God's  voice ; 

And,  knowing  whatsoe'er  he  sent  was  best, 
Dared  neither  to  lament  nor  to  rejoice. 

Then  with  a  smile,  that  filled  the  house  with  light, 
"  My  errand  is  not  Death,  but  Life,"  he  said ; 

And  ere  I  answered,  passing  out  of  sight, 
On  his  celestial  embassy  he  sped. 

T  was  at  thy  door,  O  friend  !  and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and  with  voice  divine 

Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  Death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin ; 

And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
Two  angels  issued,  where  but  one  went  in. 
96 


<i-o> 


0ate  ot  Ibeaven. 


All  is  of  God  !  If  he  but  wave  his  hand, 

The  mists  collect,  the  rain  falls  thick  and  loud, 

Till,  with  a  smile  of  light  on  sea  and  land, 
Lo  !  he  looks  back  from  the  departing  cloud. 

Angels  of  Life  and  Death  alike  are  his  ; 

Without  his  leave  they  pass  no  threshold  o'er  ; 
Who,  then,  would  wish  or  dare,  believing  this, 

Against  his  messengers  to  shut  the  door  ? 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


THE  ROAD   IS  SHORT,  THE  REST  IS    LONG. 

COME  forth  !  come  on,  with  solemn  song, 
The  road  is  short,  the  rest  is  long, 
The  Lord  brought  here,  he  calls  away ; 

Make  no  delay, 
This  home  was  for  a  passing  day. 

Here  in  an  inn  a  stranger  dwelt, 
Here  joy  and  grief  by  turns  he  felt ; 
Poor  dwelling,  now  we  close  thy  door  ! 

The  task  is  o'er, 
The  sojourner  returns  no  more. 

Now  of  a  lasting  home  possessed, 
He  goes  to  seek  a  deeper  rest ; 
Good  night !  the  day  was  sultry  here, 

In  toil  and  fear ; 
Good  night !  the  night  is  cool  and  clear. 

Come  on,  ye  bells  !  again  begin, 
And  ring  the  Sabbath  morning  in ; 

97 


Gbe  fearless 


The  laborer's  week-day  work  is  done, 

The  rest  begun, 
Which  Christ  hath  for  his  people  won  ! 

Now  open  to  us,  gates  of  peace  ! 
Here  let  the  pilgrim's  journey  cease  } 
Ye  quiet  slumberers,  make  room 

In  your  still  home, 
For  the  new  stranger  who  has  come  ! 

How  many  graves  around  us  lie  ! 
How  many  homes  are  in  the  sky  ! 
Yes,  for  each  saint  doth  Christ  prepare 

A  place  with  care  : 
Thy  home  is  waiting,  brother,  there. 

Jesus,  thou  reignest,  Lord,  alone, 
Thou  wilt  return  and  claim  thine  own. 
Come  quickly,  Lord  !  return  again  ! 

Amen  !  amen  ! 
Thy  seal  is  ever,  now  and  then  ! 

—  From  the  German  of  F.  Sachse. 


FREED   FROM  BONDAGE. 

O  SPIRIT,  freed  from  bondage, 
Rejoice,  thy  work  is  done  ! 
The  weary  world  is  'neath  thy  feet, 
Thou,  brighter  than  the  sun  ! 

Arise,  put  on  thy  garments, 
Which  the  redeemed  win  ! 

Now  sorrow  hath  no  part  in  thee, 
Thou  sanctified  from  sin  ! 

98 


3be  Gate  of  f>eaven. 


Awake  and  breathe  the  living  air, 

Of  our  celestial  clime  ! 
Awake  to  love  that  knows  no  change, 

Thou,  who  hast  done  with  time  ! 

Awake,  lift  up  thy  joyful  eyes, 

See,  all  heaven's  host  appears ; 
And  be  thou  glad  exceedingly, 

Thou  who  hast  done  with  tears  ! 

Awake  !  ascend  !  thou  art  not  now 

With  those  of  mortal  birth,  — 
The  living  God  hath  touched  thy  lips, 

Thou  who  hast  done  with  earth  ! 

—  Mary  Howitt. 

INTO  THE  JOY-LAND. 

of  the  shadows  of  sadness, 
Into  the  sunshine  of  gladness, 
Into  the  light  of  the  blest  j 
Out  of  the  land  very  dreary, 
Out  of  the  world  of  the  weary, 
Into  the  rapture  of  rest. 

Out  of  to-day's  sin  and  sorrow, 
Into  the  blissful  to-morrow, 

Into  a  day  without  gloom ; 
Out  of  a  land  filled  with  sighing, 
Land  of  the  dead  and  the  dying, 

Into  a  land  without  tomb. 

Out  of  a  life  of  commotion, 
Tempest  swept  oft  as  the  ocean, 
Dark  with  wrecks  drifting  o'er, 

99 


Into  a  land  calm  and  quiet, 
Never  a  storm  cometh  nigh  it,  — 
Never  a  wreck  on  its  shore. 

Out  of  a  land  in  whose  bowers 
Perish  and  fade  all  the  flowers ; 

Out  of  the  land  of  decay, 
Into  the  Eden  where  fairest 
Of  flow'rets,  the  sweetest  and  rarest, 

Never  shall  wither  away. 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  wailing, 
Thronged  with  the  anguished  and  ailing, 

Out  of  the  world  of  the  sad, 
Into  the  world  that  rejoices  — 
World  of  bright  visions  and  voices, 

Into  the  world  of  the  glad. 


Out  of  a  life  ever  lornful, 
Out  of  a  land  very  mournful, 

Where  in  bleak  exile  we  roam, 
Into  a  joy-land  above  us, 
Where  there  's  a  Father  to  love  us,  — 

Into  our  home,  sweet  home. 

—  Rev.  Abram  Joseph  Ryan. 

THE  DAY  IS  BREAKING. 

LET  me  go,  the  day  is  breaking ; 
Dear  companions,  let  me  go ; 
We  have  spent  a  night  of  waking 

In  the  wilderness  below ; 
Upward  now  I  bend  my  way  ; 
Part  we  here  at  break  of  day. 
100 


Let  me  go ;  I  may  not  tarry, 

Wrestling  thus  with  doubts  and  fears ; 

Angels  wait  my  soul  to  carry 
Where  my  risen  Lord  appears ; 

Friends  and  kindred,  weep  not  so ; 

If  you  love  me,  let  me  go. 

We  have  traveled  long  together, 

Hand  in  hand  and  heart  in  heart, 
Both  through  calm  and  stormy  weather, 

And  't  is  hard,  't  is  hard  to  part ; 
Yet  we  must ;  farewell  to  you ; 
Answer,  one  and  all,  adieu. 

'T  is  not  darkness  gathering  round  me 
Which  withdraws  me  from  your  sight ; 

Walls  of  flesh  no  more  can  bound  me ; 
But,  translated  into  light, 

Like  the  lark  on  mounting  wing, 

Though  unseen,  you  hear  me  sing. 

Heaven's  broad  day  hath  o'er  me  broken, 

Far  beyond  earth's  span  of  sky ; 
I  am  dead ;  nay,  by  this  token 

Know  that  I  have  ceased  to  die. 
Would  you  solve  the  mystery  ? 
Come  up  hither,  —  come  and  see  ! 

— James  Montgomery. 

O   DEAR  AND   FRIENDLY   DEATH. 


O 


DEAR  and  friendly  Death, 

End  of  my  road,  however  long  it  be, 
Waiting  with  hospitable  hands  stretched  out 
And  full  of  gifts  for  me  ! 


101 


{Tearless  %an&. 


Why  do  we  call  thee  foe, 
Clouding  with  darksome  mists  thy  face  divine  ? 
Life,  she  was  sweet,  but  poor  her  largess  seems 

When  matched  with  thine. 

Thy  amaranthine  blooms 
Are  not  less  lovely  than  her  rose  of  joy ; 
And  the  rare,  subtle  perfumes  which  they  breathe 

Never  the  senses  cloy. 

Thou  holdest  in  thy  store 
Full  satisfaction  of  all  doubt ;  reply 
To  question,  and  the  golden  clews  to  dreams 

Which  idly  passed  us  by ; 

Darkness  to  tired  eyes, 

Perplexed  with  vision,  blinded  with  long  day ; 
Quiet  to  busy  hands,  glad  to  fold  up 

And  lay  their  work  away ; 

A  balm  for  anguish  past ; 
Rest  to  the  long  unrest  which  smiles  did  hide ; 
The  recognitions  thirsted  for  in  vain, 

And  still  by  life  denied ; 

A  nearness,  all  unknown 
While  in  these  stifling,  prisoning  bodies  pent, 
Unto  thy  soul  and  mine,  beloved,  made  one 

At  last  in  full  content. 

Thou  bringest  me  mine  own, 
The  garnered  flowers  which  felt  thy  sickle  keen, 
And  the  full  vision  of  that  Face  divine, 

Which  I  have  loved  unseen. 
102 


<3ate  of  Ibcaven, 


O  dear  and  friendly  Death, 
End  of  my  road,  however  long  it  be, 
Nearing  me  day  by  day,  I  still  can  smile 

Whene'er  I  think  of  thee  ! 

—  Susan  Coottdge. 

THE   LAND   O'  THE   LEAL. 

I'M  wearin'  awa',  John, 
Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  John, 
I  'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There  's  nae  sorrow  there,  John, 
There  's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 
In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn  's  there,  John, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  John, 
And  oh  !  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy  's  a-comin'  fast,  John, 
The  joy  that 's  aye  to  last, 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Sae  dear 's  that  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  that  battle  fought,  John, 
That  sinfu'  man  e'er  brought 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Oh  !  dry  your  glistening  e'e,  John, 
My  saul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

103 


d-O 


?O 


Meatless  Xano* 


1798, 


Oh  !  baud  you  leal  and  true,  John, 
Your  day  it 's  wearin'  through,  John, 
And  I  '11  welcome  you 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare-ye-weel,  my  ain  John, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  John, 
We  '11  meet,  and  we  '11  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

—  Lady  Carolina  Nairne. 


SING  WITH   ME. 

O  ING  with  me,  sing  with  me, 
M     Weeping  brethren,  sing  with  me  ! 
For  now  an  open  heaven  I  see, 
And  a  crown  of  glory  laid  for  me. 
How  my  soul  this  earth  despises  ! 
How  my  heart  and  spirit  rises  ! 
Bounding  from  the  flesh  I  sever ; 
World  of  sin,  adieu  forever  ! 

Sing  with  me,  sing  with  me, 
Friends  in  Jesus,  sing  with  me  ! 
All  my  sufferings,  all  my  woe, 
All  my  griefs  I  here  forego. 
Farewell,  terrors,  sighing,  grieving, 
Praying,  hearing,  and  believing, 
Earthly  trust  and  all  its  wrongings, 
Earthly  love  and  all  its  longings. 

Sing  with  me,  sing  with  me, 
Blessed  spirits,  sing  with  me  ! 
To  the  Lamb  our  songs  shall  be, 
Through  a  glad  eternity. 
104 


<3ate  of  Deavcm 


Farewell,  earthly  morn  and  even, 
Sun  and  moon  and  stars  of  heaven  ; 
Heavenly  portals  ope  before  me, 
Welcome  Christ  in  all  his  glory  ! 

—  James  Hogg. 


WELCOME  CHANGE  AND  DEATH. 

NOT  long  !  not  long  !  the  spirit-wasting  fever 
Of  this  strange  life  shall  quit  each  throbbing  vein ; 
And  this  wild  pulse  flow  placidly  forever ; 
And  endless  peace  relieve  the  burning  brain. 

Earth's  joys  are  but  a  dream  ;  its  destiny 
Is  but  decay  and  death.     Its  fairest  form 

Sunshine  and  shadow  mixed.     Its  brightest  day 
A  rainbow  braided  on  the  wreaths  of  storm. 

Yet  there  is  blessedness  that  changeth  not ; 

A  rest  with  God,  a  life  that  cannot  die  ; 
A  better  portion  and  a  brighter  lot ; 

A  home  with  Christ,  a  heritage  on  high. 

Hope  for  the  hopeless,  for  the  weary,  rest, 
More  gentle  than  the  still  repose  of  even  ! 

Joy  for  the  joyless,  bliss  for  the  unblest ; 
Homes  for  the  desolate  in  yonder  heaven  ! 

The  tempest  makes  returning  calm  more  dear ; 

The  darkest  midnight  makes  the  brightest  star, 
Even  so  to  us  when  all  is  ended  here, 

Shall  be  the  past,  remembered  from  afar. 


fearless  %an&» 


Then  welcome  change  and  death  !     Since  these  alone 
Can  break  life's  fetters,  and  dissolve  its  spell  ; 

Welcome  all  present  change,  which  speeds  us  on 
So  swift  to  that  which  is  unchangeable. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 

A   MESSAGE   OF   COMFORT. 

He  made  life  —  and  He  takes  it  —  but  instead 
Gives  more  ;  praise  the  Restorer,  Al-Mu?hid! 

HE  who  died  at  Azan  sends 
This  to  comfort  faithful  friends. 

Faithful  friends  !  it  lies,  I  know, 
Pale  and  white  and  cold  as  snow  ; 
And  ye  say,  "  Abdullah  's  dead  !  " 
Weeping  at  my  feet  and  head. 
I  can  see  your  falling  tears, 
I  can  hear  your  cries  and  prayers  ; 
Yet  I  smile,  and  whisper  this  : 
"  I  am  not  that  thing  you  kiss  ; 
Cease  your  tears,  and  let  it  lie  ; 
It  was  mine,  it  is  not  I." 

Sweet  friends  !  what  the  women  lave, 
For  the  last  sleep  of  the  grave, 
Is  a  tent  which  I  am  quitting, 
Is  a  garment  no  more  fitting, 
Is  a  cage  from  which,  at  last, 
Like  a  bird  my  soul  hath  passed. 
Love  the  inmate,  not  the  room  ; 
The  wearer,  not  the  garb  ;  the  plume 
Of  the  eagle,  not  the  bars 
Which  kept  him  from  the  splendid  stars. 

106 


Loving  friends  !  be  wise,  and  dry 
Straightway  every  weeping  eye ; 
What  ye  lift  upon  the  bier 
Is  not  worth  a  wistful  tear. 
'T  is  an  empty  sea-shell,  one 
Out  of  which  the  pearl  is  gone ; 
The  shell  is  broken,  it  lies  there ; 
The  pearl,  the  all,  the  soul,  is  here. 
'T  is  an  earthen  jar  whose  lid 
Allah  sealed,  the  while  it  hid 
That  treasure  of  His  treasury, 
A  mind  which  loved  Him ;  let  it  lie 
Let  the  shard  be  earth's  once  more, 
Since  the  gold  shines  in  His  store  ! 

Allah  Mu'hid,  Allah  good  ! 
Now  thy  grace  is  understood  ; 
Now  the  long,  long  darkness  ends, 
Yet  ye  wail,  my  foolish  friends, 
While  the  man  whom  ye  call  "  dead  " 
In  unspoken  bliss  instead, 
Lives,  and  loves  you ;  lost,  't  is  true, 
To  the  light  which  shines  for  you ; 
But  in  light  ye  cannot  see 
Of  unfulfilled  felicity, 
And  enlarging  paradise, 
Lives  the  life  that  never  dies. 

Farewell,  friends  !    Yet  not  farewell ; 
Where  I  am,  ye  too  shall  dwell. 
I  am  gone  before  your  face 
A  heart-beat's  time,  a  gray  ant's  pace. 


V 


107 


fearless  XanO. 


When  ye  come  where  I  have  stepped, 
Ye  will  marvel  why  ye  wept, 
Ye  will  know,  by  true  love  taught, 
That  here  is  all,  and  there  is  naught. 
Weep  awhile,  if  ye  are  fain  ; 
Sunshine  still  must  follow  rain  . 
Only  not  at  death,  for  death  — 
Now  I  see  —  is  that  first  breath 
Which  our  souls  draw  when  we  enter 
Life,  which  is  of  all  life  center. 

Know  ye  Allah's  law  is  love, 
Viewed  from  Allah's   throne  above  : 
Be  ye  firm  of  trust,  and  come 
Bravely  onward  to  your  home  ! 
"  La  Allah  ilia  Allah  !     Yea, 
Mu'hid  !  Restorer  !  Sovereign  !  "  say  ! 

He  who  died  at  Azan  gave 

This  to  those  who  made  his  grave. 

—  Edwin  Arnold.     From  the  Arabic. 


T 


FLING   OPEN  WIDE  THE  GOLDEN   GATES. 

'EN  thousand  times  ten  thousand, 

In  sparkling  raiment  bright, 
The  armies  of  the  ransomed  saints 

Throng  up  the  steeps  of  light : 
}T  is  finished,  all  is  finished, 

Their  fight  with  death  and  sin : 
Fling  open  wide  the  golden  gates, 
And  let  the  victors  in. 
108 


(Sate  of  Deavetu 


What  rush  of  hallelujahs 

Fills  all  the  earth  and  sky  ! 
What  ringing  of  a  thousand  harps 

Bespeaks  the  triumph  nigh  ! 
Oh,  day,  for  which  creation 

And  all  its  tribes  were  made  ! 
Oh,  joy,  for  all  its  former  woes, 

A  thousand-fold  repaid  ! 

Oh,  then  what  raptured  greetings 

On  Canaan's  happy  shore, 
What  knitting  severed  friendships  up, 

Where  partings  are  no  more  ! 
Then  eyes  with  joy  shall  sparkle, 

That  brimmed  with  tears  of  late, 
Orphans  no  longer  fatherless, 

Nor  widows  desolate. 

Bring  near  thy  great  salvation, 

Thou  Lamb  for  sinners  slain  ; 
Fill  up  the  roll  of  thine  elect, 

Then  take  thy  power,  and  reign  ; 
Appear,  Desire  of  nations  — 

Thine  exiles  long  for  home  — 
Show  in  the  heaven  thy  promised  sign, 

Thou  Prince  and  Saviour,  come  ! 

—  Henry  Alford. 

IT   IS  NOT  DEATH   TO  DIE. 

TT  is  not  death  to  die  — 

To  leave  this  weary  road, 
And,  mid  the  brotherhood  on  high, 
To  be  at  home  with  God. 

109 


Gbc  fearless  XanD. 

It  is  not  death  to  close 

The  eye  long  dimmed  by  tears, 
And  wake  in  glorious  repose 

To  spend  eternal  years. 

It  is  not  death  to  bear 

The  wrench  that  sets  us  free 
From  dungeon  chain,  to  breathe  the  air 

Of  boundless  liberty. 

It  is  not  death  to  fling 

Aside  this  sinful  dust, 
And  rise,  on  strong  exulting  wing, 

To  live  among  the  just. 

Jesus,  thou  Prince  of  life  ! 

Thy  chosen  cannot  die ; 
Like  thee,  they  conquer  in  the  strife, 

To  reign  with  Thee  on  high. 

—  George  W.  Bethune. 


AT   EVE. 

WE  journey  through  a  vale  of  tears, 
By  many  a  cloud  o'ercast, 
And  worldly  cares  and  worldly  fears 

Go  with  us  to  the  last ! 
Not  to  the  last !  God's  Word  hath  said, 

Could  we  but  read  aright : 
O  pilgrim,  lift  in  hope  thy  head, 
At  eve  it  shall  be  light  1 


Though  earth-born  shadows  now  may  shroud 
Our  thorny  path  awhile, 


<3ate  of  Ibeaven. 


God's  blessed  word  can  rend  each  cloud, 

And  bid  the  sunshine  smile. 
Only  believe,  in  living  faith, 

His  love  and  power  divine, 
And,  ere  life's  sun  shall  set  in  death, 

His  light  shall  round  us  shine. 

When  tempest-clouds  are  dark  on  high, 

His  bow  of  love  and  peace 
Shines  sweetly  in  the  vaulted  sky, 

Betokening  storms  shall  cease. 
Walk  on  thy  way  with  hope  unchilled, 

By  faith  and  not  by  sight, 
And  we  shall  own  his  word  fulfilled,  — 

At  eve  it  shall  be  light  ! 

—  Bernard  Barton. 


ASCEND,   BELOVED. 

ASCEND,  belove'd,  to  the  joy ; 
The  festal  day  has  come  ; 
To-night  the  Lamb  doth  feast  his  own, 
To-night  he  with  his  Bride  sits  down, 
To-night  puts  on  the  spousal  crown, 
In  the  great  upper  room. 

Ascend,  belove'd,  to  the  love ; 

This  is  the  day  of  days ; 
To-night  the  bridal  song  is  sung, 
To-night  ten  thousand  harps  are  strung, 
In  sympathy  with  heart  and  tongue, 

Unto  the  Lamb's  high  praise. 

in 


The  festal  lamps  are  lighting  now 

In  the  great  marriage  hall ; 
By  angel- hands  the  board  is  spread; 
By  angel-hands  the  sacred  bread 
Is  on  the  golden  table  laid ; 

The  King  his  own  doth  call. 

The  gems  are  gleaming  from  the  roof, 

Like  stars  in  night's  round  dome ; 
The  festal  wreaths  are  hanging  there, 
The  festal  fragrance  fills  the  air, 
And  flowers  of  heaven,  divinely  fair, 
Unfold  their  happy  bloom. 

Long,  long  deferred,  now  comes  at  last 

The  Lamb's  glad  wedding  day ; 
The  guests  are  gathering  to  the  feast, 
The  seats  in  heavenly  order  placed, 
The  royal  throne  above  the  rest ; 
How  bright  the  new  array  ! 

Sorrow  and  sighing  are  no  more ; 

The  weeping  hours  are  past ; 
To-night  the  waiting  will  be  done, 
To-night  the  wedding  robe  put  on, 
The  glory  and  the  joy  begun ; 

The  crown  has  come  at  last. 


Without,  within,  is  light,  is  light ; 

Around,  above,  is  love,  is  love ; 
We  enter,  to  go  out  no  more ; 
We  raise  the  song  unsung  before ; 
We  doff  the  sackcloth  that  we  wore 

For  all  is  joy  above. 


Ascend,  beloved,  to  the  life ; 

Our  days  of  death  are  o'er ; 
Mortality  has  done  its  worst ; 
The  fetters  of  the  tomb  are  burst ; 
The  last  has  now  become  the  first, 

Forever,  evermore. 

Ascend,  beloved,  to  the  feast ; 

Make  haste,  thy  day  is  come ; 
Thrice  blest  are  they  the  Lamb  doth  call 
To  share  the  heavenly  festival 
In  the  new  Salem's  palace-hall, 

Our  everlasting  home. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 

THROUGH  THE   DOOR. 

'"THE  angel  opened  the  door 
*      A  little  way, 
And  she  vanished,  as  melts  a  star 

Into  the  day. 
And,  for  just  a  second's  space, 

Ere  the  bar  he  drew, 
The  pitying  angel  paused, 

And  we  looked  through. 

What  did  we  see  within  ? 

Ah,  who  can  tell ! 
What  glory  and  glow  of  light 

Ineffable  ! 
What  peace  in  the  very  air, 

What  hush  and  calm, 
Soothing  each  tired  soul 

Like  healing  balm ! 

"3 


l! 


/ 


fearless  XanD* 

Was  it  a  dream  we  dreamed, 

Or  did  we  hear 
The  harping  of  silver  harps 

Divinely  clear? 
A  murmur  of  that  "  new  song," 

Which,  soft  and  low, 
The  happy  angels  sing,  — 

Sing  as  they  go  ? 

And,  as  in  the  legend  old, 

The  good  monk  heard, 
As  he  paced  his  cloister  dim, 

A  heavenly  bird, 
And,  rapt  and  lost  in  the  joy 

Of  the  wondrous  song, 
Listened  a  hundred  years, 

Nor  deemed  them  long, 

So,  chained  in  sense  and  limb, 

All  blind  with  sun, 
We  stood  and  tasted  the  joy 

Of  our  vanished  one ; 
And  we  took  no  note  of  time, 

Till  soon,  or  late, 
The  gentle  angel  sighed, 

And  shut  the  gate. 

The  vision  is  closed  and  sealed ; 

We  are  come  back 
To  the  old,  accustomed  earth, 

The  well-worn  track,  — 
Back  to  the  daily  toil, 

The  daily  pain,  — 
114 


(Bate  of  fbeaven* 


But  we  never  can  be  the  same, 
Never  again. 

We  who  have  bathed  in  noon, 

All  radiant  white, 
Shall  we  come  back  content 

To  sit  in  night  ?  — 
Content  with  self  and  sin, 

The  stain,  the  blot? 
To  have  stood  so  near  the  gate, 

And  enter  not  ? 

O  glimpse  so  swjft,  so  sweet, 

So  soon  withdrawn, 
Stay  with  us  !     Light  our  dusks 

Till  day  shall  dawn,  — 
Until  the  shadows  flee, 

And  to  our  view 
Again  the  gate  unbars, 

And  we  pass  through. 


—  Susan  Coolidge. 

REAPPEARING. 

THE  star  is  not  extinguished  when  it  sets 
Upon  the  dull  horizon  ;  but  it  goes 
To  shine  in  other  skies,  then  reappear 
In  ours,  as  fresh  as  when  it  first  arose. 

The  river  is  not  lost  when  o'er  the  rock 
It  pours  its  flood  into  the  abyss  below ; 

Its  scattering  force  regathering  from  the  shock, 
It  hastens  onward  with  yet  fuller  flow. 

"5 


cU3 


fearless 


The  bright  sun  dies  not  when  the  shadowing  orb 
Of  the  eclipsing  moon  obscures  its  ray  ; 

It  still  is  shining  on,  and  soon  to  us 

Will  burst  undimmed  into  the  joy  of  day. 

The  lily  dies  not  when  both  flower  and  leaf 

Fade,  and  are  strewed  upon  the  chill,  sad  ground  ; 

Gone  for  shelter  to  its  mother  earth, 

'T  will  rise,  re-bloom,  and  shed  its  fragrance  round. 

The  dewdrop  dies  not  when  it  leaves  the  flower, 
And  passes  upward  on  the  beam  of  morn  ; 

It  does  but  hide  itself  in  light  on  high, 
To  its  loved  flower  at  twilight  to  return. 

The  fine  gold  has  not  perished  when  the  flame 

Seizes  upon  it  with  consuming  glow  ; 
In  freshened  splendor  it  comes  forth  anew, 

To  sparkle  on  the  monarch's  throne  or  brow. 

Thus  nothing  dies,  or  only  dies  to  live,  — 

Star,  stream,  sun,  flower,  the  dewdrop,  and  the  gold  ; 

Each  goodly  thing,  instinct  with  buoyant  hope, 
Hastes  to  put  on  its  purer,  finer  mould. 

So,  in  the  quiet  joy  of  kindly  trust, 

We  bid  each  parting  saint  a  brief  farewell  ; 

Weeping,  yet  smiling,  we  commit  their  dust 
To  the  safe  keeping  of  the  silent  cell. 

Softly  within  that  peaceful  resting-place 

We  place  their  wearied  limbs,  and  bid  the  clay 

Press  lightly  on  them,  till  the  night  be  past, 
And  the  far  east  give  note  of  coming  day. 

116 


<3ate  of  l>eaven. 


The  day  of  reappearing,  how  it  speeds  ! 

He  who  is  true  and  faithful  speaks  the  word  ; 
Then  shall  we  ever  be  with  those  we  love  ; 

Then  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord. 

• 

The  shout  is  heard  ;  the  archangel's  voice  goes  forth  ; 

The  trumpet  sounds  ;  the  dead  awake  and  sing  ; 
The  living  put  on  glory  ;  one  glad  band, 

They  hasten  up  to  meet  their  coming  King  ! 

Short  death  and  darkness,  endless  life  and  light  ! 

Short  dimming,  endless  shining  in  yon  sphere, 
Where  all  is  incorruptible  and  pure, 

The  joy  without  the  pain,  the  smile  without  the  tear. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


"FOREVER  WITH  THE   LORD." 

I  Thess.  4 : 17. 
PART  I. 

"  POREVER  with  the  Lord  ! " 
*       Amen,  so  let  it  be ; 
Life  from  the  dead  is  in  that  word, 
'T  is  immortality. 

Here  in  the  body  pent, 
Absent  from  thee  I  roam ; 

Yet  nightly  pitch  my  moving  tent 
A  day's  march  nearer  home. 

My  Father's  house  on  high, 
Home  of  my  soul,  how  near, 

At  times,  to  faith's  foreseeing  eye, 
Thy  golden  gates  appear ! 

117 


3be  Ccarlcss  XanD. 


Ah  !  then  my  spirit  faints 

To  reach  the  land  I  love, 
The  bright  inheritance  of  saints, 

Jerusalem  above. 

» 

Yet  clouds  will  intervene, 

And  all  my  prospect  flies ; 
Like  Noah's  dove,  I  flit  between 

Rough  seas  and  stormy  skies. 

Anon  the  clouds  dispart, 
The  winds  and  waters  cease 

While  sweetly  o'er  my  gladdened  heart 
Expands  the  bow  of  peace. 

Beneath  its  glowing  arch, 
Along  the  hallowed  ground, 

I  see  cherubic  armies  march, 
A  camp  of  fire  around. 

I  hear  at  morn  and  even, 
At  noon  and  midnight  hour, 

The  choral  harmonies  of  heaven 
Earth's  Babel-tongues  o'erpower. 

Then,  then  I  feel  that  he 

(Remembered  or  forgot), 
The  Lord,  is  never  far  from  me, 

Though  I  perceive  him  not. 


PART  H. 

In  darkness  as  in  light 
Hidden  alike  from  view, 

I  sleep,  I  wake  within  his  sight, 
Who  looks  existence  through. 

118 


Gate  of  f>eavetu 


From  the  dim  hour  of  birth, 
Through  every  changing  state 

Of  mortal  pilgrimage  on  earth, 
Till  its  appointed  date ; 

All  that  I  am,  have  been, 

All  that  I  yet  may  be, 
He  sees  at  once,  as  he  hath  seen 

And  shall  forever  see. 

How  can  I  meet  his  eyes? 

Mine  on  the  cross  I  cast, 
And  own  my  life  a  Saviour's  prize, 

Mercy  from  first  to  last. 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord  !  " 
—  Father,  if  't  is  thy  will, 

The  promise  of  that  faithful  word 
Even  here  to  me  fulfill. 

Be  thou  at  my  right  hand, 

Then  can  I  never  fail ; 
Uphold  thou  me,  and  I  shall  stand, 

Fight,  and  I  must  prevail. 

So  when  my  latest  breath 
Shall  rend  the  veil  in  twain, 

By  death  I  shall  escape  from  death, 
And  life  eternal  gain. 

Knowing  as  I  am  known, 
How  shall  I  love  that  word, 

And  oft  repeat  before  the  throng, 
"  Forever  with  the  Lord  ! " 

119 


O 


Cbe  fearless  OLanD. 

Then  though  the  soul  enjoy 

Communion  high  and  sweet, 
While  worms  this  body  must  destroy, 

Both  shall  in  glory  meet. 

The  trump  of  final  doom 

Will  speak  the  self-same  word, 
And  heaven's  voice  thunder  through  the  tomb, 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord  !  " 

The  tomb  shall  echo  deep 

That  death-awakening  sound ; 
The  saints  shall  hear  it  in  their  sleep 

And  answer  from  the  ground. 

Then  upward  as  they  fly, 

That  resurrection-word 
Shall  be  their  shout  of  victory, 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord  ! " 

That  resurrection- word, 
That  shout  of  victory, 
Once  more,  —  "  Forever  with  the  Lord  !  " 

Amen,  so  let  it  be  ! 

— James  Montgomery. 

THE   DEAD   GOING  HOME.1 

SLOWLY,  with  measured  tread, 
Onward  we  bear  the  dead 
To  his  long  home. 
Short  grows  the  homeward  road, 
On  with  your  mortal  load  j 
O  grave  !  we  come. 

1  In  Egypt  a  funeral  procession  stopped  before  the  doors  of  friends  and  ene- 


i 


Yet,  yet  —  ah  !  hasten  not 
Past  each  familiar  spot 

Where  he  hath  been ; 
Where  late  he  walked  in  glee, 
There  from  henceforth  to  be 

Nevermore  seen. 

Yet,  yet  —  ah  !  slowly  move  — 
Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

Fast  from  our  sight  — 
Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  leave  on  him 

Last  looks  of  light. 

Rest  ye  —  set  down  the  bier, 
One  he  loved  dwelleth  here, 

Let  the  dead  lie 
A  moment  that  door  beside, 
Wont  to  fly  open  wide 

Ere  he  came  nigh. 

Hearken  !  —  he  speaketh  yet  — 
"  O  friend  !  wilt  thou  forget 

(Friend  more  than  brother  !) 
How  hand  in  hand  we  Ve  gone, 
Heart  with  heart  linked  in  one  — 

All  to  each  other. 

"  O  friend  !  I  go  from  thee, 
Where  the  worm  feasteth  free 

Darkly  to  dwell  — 
Giv'st  thou  no  parting  kiss  ? 
Friend  !  is  it  come  to  this? 

O  friend,  farewell ! " 


i 


fearless  3LanD» 

Uplift  your  load  again, 

Take  up  the  mourning  strain  ! 

Pour  the  deep  wail ! 
Lo  !  the  expected  one 
To  his  place  passeth  on  — 

Grave  !  bid  him  hail. 

Yet,  yet  —  ah  !  slowly  move  — 
Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

Fast  from  our  sight — 
Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  leave  on  him 

Last  looks  of  light. 

Here  dwells  his  mortal  foe ; 
Lay  the  departed  low, 

E'en  at  his  gate. 
Will  the  dead  speak  again, 
Uttering  proud  boasts  and  vain, 

Last  words  of  hate  ? 

Lo  !  the  dead  lips  unclose  — 
List !  list !  what  sounds  are  those, 

Plaintive  and  low  ? 
"  O  thou,  mine  enemy  ! 
Come  forth  and  look  on  me 

Ere  hence  I  go. 

"  Curse  not  thy  foeman  now  — 
Mark  !  on  his  pallid  brow 

Whose  seal  is  set ! 
Pard'ning  I  passed  away  — 
Thou  —  wage  not  war  with  clay  — 

Pardon — forget." 


122 


Gate  of  IDeaven, 


Now  his  labor  's  done  ! 
Now,  now  the  goal  is  won  ! 

O  grave  !  we  come. 
Seal  up  this  precious  dust  — 
Land  of  the  good  and  just, 

Take  the  soul  home  ! 

—  Caroline  Bowles. 

NEARER   HOME.1 

s  sweetly  solemn  thought 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er ; 
I  'm  nearer  home  to-day 

Than  I  Ve  ever  been  before ; 

Nearer  my  Father's  house 

Where  the  many  mansions  be ; 
Nearer  the  Great  White  Throne, 

Nearer  the  Jasper  Sea ; 

Nearer  that  bound  of  life, 

Where  we  lay  our  burdens  down  — 

Nearer  leaving  the  cross, 
Nearer  gaining  the  crown. 

But  lying  dimly  between, 

Winding  down  through  the  night, 
Lies  the  dark  and  uncertain  stream 

That  leads  us  at  length  to  the  light. 

Closer  and  closer  my  steps 

Come  to  the  dark  abysm, 
Closer  Death  to  my  lips 

Presses  the  awful  chrism ; 

1  Note  5.  ,2, 


<L^> 


TO 


fearless  Xanfc. 

Father,  perfect  my  trust ! 

Strengthen  my  feeble  faith  ! 
Let  me  feel  as  I  would  when  I  stand 

On  the  shores  of  the  river  of  death  — 

Feel  as  I  would,  were  my  feet 

Even  now  slipping  over  the  brink ; 
For  it  may  be  I  'm  nearer  home, 

Nearer  now,  than  I  think  ! 

—  Phoebe  Gary. 


EVERYWHERE    NEAR. 

Nor  from  Jerusalem  alone 
To  heaven  the  path  ascends ; 
As  near,  as  sure,  as  straight  the  way 
That  leads  to  the  celestial  day, 
From  farthest  realms  extends,  — 
Frigid  or  torrid  zone. 

What  matters  how  or  whence  we  start  ? 
One  is  the  crown  to  all ; 

One  is  the  hard  but  glorious  race, 
Whatever  be  our  starting-place. 
Rings  round  the  earth  the  call 
That  says,  Arise,  depart ! 

From  the  balm-breathing,  sun-loved  isles 
Of  the  bright  Southern  Sea, 

From  the  dead  north's  cloud-shadowed  pole, 
We  gather  to  one  gladsome  goal,  — 
One  common  home  in  thee, 
City  of  sun  and  smiles  ! 

124 


(Sate  of  Deaven* 


The  cold  rough  billow  hinders  none, 
Nor  helps  the  calm,  fair  main ; 

The  brown  rock  of  Norwegian  gloom, 
The  verdure  of  Tahitian  bloom, 
The  sands  of  Mizraim's  plain 
Or  peaks  of  Lebanon. 

As  from  the  green  lands  of  the  vine, 
So  from  the  snow-wastes  pale, 
We  find  the  ever  open  road 
To  the  dear  city  of  our  God,  — 
From  Russian  steppe,  or  Burman  vale, 
Or  terraced  Palestine. 

Not  from  swift  Jordan's  sacred  stream 
Alone  we  mount  above ; 

Indus  or  Danube,  Thames  or  Rhone,  — 
Rivers  unsainted  and  unknown,  — 
From  each  the  home  of  love 
Beckons  with  heavenly  gleam. 

Not  from  gray  Olivet  alone 
We  see  the  gates  of  light ; 

From  Morven's  heath  or  Jungfrau's  snow, 
We  welcome  the  descending  glow 
Of  pearl  and  chrysolite, 
And  the  unsetting  sun. 

Not  from  Jerusalem  alone 
The  Church  ascends  to  God ; 

Strangers  of  every  tongue  and  clime, 
Pilgrims  of  every  land  and  time, 
Throng  the  well-trodden  road 
That  leads  up  to  the  throne. 

— Horatius  Bonar* 


fearless  Xanfc. 

THE   OTHER  WORLD. 

IT  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud,  — 
A  world  we  do  not  see ; 
Yet  the  sweet  closing  of  an  eye 
May  bring  us  there  to  be. 

Its  gentle  breezes  fan  our  cheek ; 

Amid  our  worldly  cares 
Its  gentle  voices  whisper  love, 

And  mingle  with  our  prayers. 


Sweet  hearts  around  us  throb  and  beat, 
Sweet  helping  hands  are  stirred, 

And  palpitates  the  veil  between 
With  breathings  almost  heard. 

The  silence  —  awful,  sweet,  and  calm  — 
They  have  no  power  to  break ; 

For  mortal  words  are  not  for  them 
To  utter  or  partake. 

So  thin,  so  soft,  so  sweet  they  glide, 
So  near  to  press  they  seem,  — 

They  seem  to  lull  us  to  our  rest, 
And  melt  into  our  dream. 

And  in  the  hush  of  rest  they  bring 

'T  is  easy  now  to  see 
How  lovely  and  how  sweet  a  pass 

The  hour  of  death  may  be. 

To  close  the  eye,  and  close  the  ear, 
Wrapped  in  a  trance  of  bliss, 

And  gently  dream  in  loving  arms 
To  swoon  to  that  —  from  this, 

126 


It 

*  8 

•C     r^ 


Gate  of  fbeavem 


Scarce  knowing  if  we  wake  or  sleep, 

Scarce  asking  where  we  are, 
To  feel  all  evil  sink  away, 

All  sorrow  and  all  care. 

Sweet  souls  around  us  !  watch  us  still, 

Press  nearer  to  our  side, 
Into  our  thoughts,  into  our  prayers, 

With  gentle  helpings  glide. 

Let  death  between  us  be  as  naught, 

A  dried  and  vanished  stream  : 
Your  joy  be  the  reality, 

Our  suffering  life  the  dream. 
1860.  —Mrs.H.B.Stowe. 


THE   PARTING   HOUR. 

THE  hour,  the  hour,  the  parting  hour, 
That  takes  from  this  dark  world  its  power, 
And  lays  at  once  the  thorn  and  flower 

On  the  same  withering  bier,  my  soul  ! 
The  hour  that  ends  all  earthly  woes, 
And  gives  the  wearied  soul  repose,  — 
How  soft,  how  sweet,  that  last  long  close 
Of  mortal  hope  and  fear,  my  soul  ! 

How  sweet,  while  on  this  broken  lyre 

The  melodies  of  time  expire, 

To  feel  it  strung  with  chords  of  fire 

To  praise  the  Immortal  One,  my  soul  ! 
And  while  our  farewell  tears  we  pour 
To  those  we  leave  on  this  cold  shore, 
To  feel  that  we  shall  weep  no  more, 

Nor  dwell  in  heaven  alone,  my  soul  ! 
127 


Meatless  3Lan&. 

How  sweet,  while,  waning  fast  away, 
The  stars  of  this  dim  world  decay, 
To  hail,  prophetic  of  the  day, 

The  golden  dawn  above,  my  soul ! 
To  feel  we  only  sleep  to  rise 
In  sunnier  lands  and  fairer  skies, 
To  bind  again  our  broken  ties 

In  ever-living  love,  my  soul ! 

The  hour,  the  hour,  so  pure  and  calm, 
That  bathes  the  wounded  soul  in  balm, 
And  round  the  pale  brow  twines  the  palm 

That  shuns  this  wintry  clime,  my  soul ! 
The  hour  that  draws  o'er  earth  and  all 
Its  briers  and  blooms  the  mortal  pall,  — 
How  soft,  how  sweet,  that  evening-fall 

Of  fears,  and  grief,  and  time,  my  soul ! 

—  Anon. 


DROPPING   DOWN   THE   RIVER. 

DROPPING  down  the  troubled  river, 
To  the  tranquil,  tranquil  shore, 
Dropping  down  the  misty  river, 
Time's  willow-shaded  river, 

To  the  spring-embosomed  shore, 
Where  the  sweet  light  shineth  ever, 
And  the  sun  goes  down  no  more ; 
O  wondrous,  wondrous  shore  ! 

Dropping  down  the  winding  river, 
To  the  wide  and  welcome  sea ; 

128 


Gate  of  Ibeavem 


Dropping  down  the  narrow  river, 
Man's  weary,  wayward  river, 

To  the  blue  and  ample  sea, 
Where  no  tempest  wrecketh  ever, 

Where  the  sky  is  fair  and  free ; 

O  joyous,  joyous  sea  ! 

Dropping  down  the  noisy  river, 

To  our  peaceful,  peaceful  home ; 
Dropping  down  the  turbid  river, 
Earth's  bustling,  crowded  river, 

To  our  gentle,  gentle  home, 
Where  the  rough  roar  riseth  never, 

And  the  vexings  cannot  come ; 

O  loved  and  longed-for  home  ! 

Dropping  down  the  eddying  river, 

With  a  Helmsman  true  and  tried ; 
Dropping  down  the  perilous  river, 
Mortality's  dark  river, 

With  a  sure  and  heavenly  Guide, 
Even  Him  who,  to  deliver 

My  soul  from  death,  hath  died ; 

O  Helmsman  true  and  tried  ! 

Dropping  down  the  rapid  river, 

To  the  dear  and  deathless  land ; 
Dropping  down  the  well-known  river, 
Life's  swollen  and  rushing  river, 

To  the  resurrection  land, 
Where  the  living  live  forever, 

And  the  dead  have  joined  the  band ; 

O  fair  and  blessed  land  ! 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 
129 


fearless  XanD. 


THE  PILOT. 

MY  bark  is  wafted  on  the  strand 
By  breath  divine ; 

And  on  the  helm  there  rests  a  hand 
Other  than  mine. 

One  who  was  known  in  storms  to  sail, 

I  have  on  board  ; 
Above  the  roaring  of  the  gale, 

I  have  my  Lord. 

He  holds  me  when  the  billows  smite ; 

I  shall  not  fall. 
If  sharp,  'tis  short;  if  long,  'tis  light- 

He  tempers  all. 

Safe  to  the  land  !  safe  to  the  land  ! 

The  end  is  this, 
And  then  with  Him  go  hand  in  hand 

Far  into  bliss. 


—  Anon. 


THERE   IS   LIGHT  BEYOND. 

BEYOND  the  stars  that  shine  in  golden  glory, 
Beyond  the  calm  sweet  moon, 
Up  the  bright  ladder  saints  have  trod  before  thee, 

Soul,  thou  shalt  venture  soon. 
Secure  with  Him  who  sees  thy  heartsick  yearning, 

Safe  in  his  arms  of  love, 

Thou  shalt  exchange  the  midnight  for  the  morning 
And  thy  fair  home  above. 


Oh  !  it  is  sweet  to  watch  the  world's  night  wearing, 

The  Sabbath  morn  come  on, 
And  sweet  it  were  the  vineyard  labor  sharing  — 

Sweeter  the  labor  done. 
All  finished  !  all  the  conflict  and  the  sorrow, 

Earth's  dream  of  anguish  o'er ; 
Deathless  there  dawns  for  thee  a  nightless  morrow 

On  Eden's  blissful  shore. 

Patience  !  then,  patience  !  soon  the  pang  of  dying 

Shall  all  forgotten  be, 
And  thou,  through  rolling  spheres  rejoicing,  flying 

Beyond  the  waveless  sea, 
Shalt  know  hereafter  where  thy  Lord  doth  lead  thee, 

His  darkest  dealings  trace, 
And  by  those  fountains  where  his  love  will  feed  thee, 

Behold  him  face  to  face. 

Then  bow  thine  head,  and  God  shall  give  thee  meekness, 

Bravely  to  do  his  will ; 
So  shall  arise  his  glory  in  thy  weakness  — 

Ob,  struggling  soul,  be  still ! 
Dark  clouds  are  his  pavilion  shining  o'er  thee ; 

Thine  heart  must  recognize 
The  veiled  Shekinah  moving  on  before  thee, 

Too  bright  to  meet  thine  eyes. 

Behold  the  wheel  that  straightly  moves,  and  fleetly 

Performs  the  sovereign  Word ; 
Thou  know'st  his  suffering  love  !  then  suffering  meekly, 

Follow  thy  loving  Lord  ! 
Watch  on  the  tower,  and  listen  by  the  gateway, 

Nor  weep  to  wait  alone ; 


Geartese  Xanfc. 


Take  thou  thy  spices,  and  some  angel  straightway 
Shall  roll  away  the  stone. 

Then  shalt  thou  tell  thy  living  Lord  hath  risen, 

And  risen  but  to  save  ; 
Tell  of  the  might  that  breaks  the  Captive's  prison, 

And  life  beyond  the  grave  ! 
Tell  how  He  met  thee,  all  his  radiance  shrouded  ; 

How  in  thy  sorrow  came 
His  pitying  voice  breathing,  when  faith  was  clouded, 

Thine  own  familiar  name. 

So  at  the  grave's  dark  portal  thou  may'st  linger, 

And  hymn  some  happy  strain  ; 
The  passing  world  may  mock  the  feeble  singer  — 

Heed  not,  but  sing  again. 
Thus  wait,  thus  watch,  till  He  the  last  link  sever, 

And  changeless  rest  be  won  ; 
Then  in  His  glory  thou  shalt  bask  forever, 

Fear  not  the  clouds  —  PRESS  ON  ! 


Anon. 


ACROSS  THE  BAR. 

SUNSET  and  evening  star, 
And  one  clear  call  for  me  ; 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar 
When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

132 


<3ate  of  l>eaven, 


Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell 

When  I  embark  ; 

For  though  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

—  Alfred  Tennyson. 

EDEN'S    DOOR. 

'T'HE  foe  behind,  the  deep  before, 
*      Our  hosts  have  dared  and  passed  the  sea  ; 
And  Pharaoh's  warriors  strew  the  shore, 
And  Israel's  ransomed  tribes  are  free. 
Lift  up,  lift  up  your  voices  now  ! 
The  whole  wide  world  rejoices  now  ! 
The  Lord  hath  triumphed  gloriously  ! 
The  Lord  shall  reign  victoriously  ! 
Happy  morrow, 
Turning  sorrow 

Into  peace  and  mirth  ! 

Bondage  ending, 
Love  descending 

O'er  the  earth  ! 
Seals  assuring, 
Guards  securing  ; 

Watch  his  earthly  prison, 
Seals  are  shattered, 
Guards  are  scattered, 

Christ  hath  risen  ! 


Hbe  fearless 


No  longer  must  the  mourners  weep, 

Nor  call  departed  Christians  dead ; 
For  death  is  hallowed  into  sleep 
And  every  grave  becomes  a  bed. 

Now  once  more 

Eden's  door 

Open  stands  to  mortal  eyes ; 
For  Christ  hath  risen,  and  men  shall  rise  : 

Now  at  last, 

Old  things  past, 

Hope,  and  joy,  and  peace  begin  : 
For  Christ  hath  won,  and  men  shall  win. 

It  is  not  exile,  rest  on  high  : 

It  is  not  sadness,  peace  from  strife : 
To  fall  asleep  is  not  to  die : 

To  dwell  with  Christ  is  better  life. 

Where  our  banner  leads  us, 

We  may  safely  go  : 
Where  our  Chief  precedes  us, 

We  may  face  the  foe. 
His  right  arm  is  o'er  us, 

He  will  guide  us  through ; 
Christ  hath  gone  before  us ; 

Christians  !  follow  you  ! 

— John  Mason  Neale,  D.D. 

THE  VALEDICTION. 

WHEN  the  death-dews  dim  my  eyes, 
And  my  bosom  panting  lies, 
Ebbing  life's  receding  sighs, 
Shorter,  fainter,  growing ; 

134 


<U3 


Ere  my  spirit  breaks  her  way, 
Through  her  prison-walls  of  clay, 
Into  realms  of  endless  day  — 

The  land  to  which  I  'm  going 

May  the  dear  familiar  band 

Of  weeping  friends  that  round  me  stand, 

Watching  the  decreasing  sand, 

Fast  and  faster  flowing, 
Chant  some  low  strain,  blending  well 
With  the  solemn  passing  bell, 
Of  the  holy  home  to  tell  — 

The  land  to  which  I  'm  going. 

Let  them  sing,  "  Dear  suffering  one, 

Soon  thy  journey  will  be  done, 

Thy  fight  be  fought,  thy  race  be  run : 

Thy  soul,  with  rapture  glowing, 
The  everlasting  hills  shall  see, 
Where  pain  no  more  can  come  to  thee, 
And  neither  sin  nor  sorrow  be  — 

The  land  to  which  thou  'rt  going. 

"  He,  thy  Saviour  and  thy  guide, 
For  thy  guilty  sake  that  died, 
Even  now  is  by  thy  side, 

Comfort  thoughts  bestowing. 
Angelic  forms  their  arms  extend, 
And  smileth  many  a  long-lost  friend 
Glad  welcome  to  thy  journey's  end  — 

The  land  to  which  thou  ;rt  going." 

Then,  as  the  burden  of  their  song 
In  faint,  sweet  cadence  dies  along, 

'35 


&be  Cearless  XanD* 

One  happy,  radiant  look  among 

That  group  of  mourners  throwing 
Just  as  they  faded  from  my  view, 
I  fain  would  breathe  one  fond  adieu, 
Till  in  that  land  we  meet  anew  — 
The  land  to  which  I  'm  going. 


—  Anon. 


WHEN   WE  THINK   NOT. 

T  T  E  will  come  perhaps  at  morning, 

When  simply  to  live  is  sweet, 
When  the  arm  is  strong,  unwearied 

By  the  noonday  toil  and  heat ; 
When  the  undimmed  eye  looks  tearless 

Up  the  shining  heights  of  life, 
And  the  eagle  soul  is  panting, 

Yearning  for  some  nobler  strife. 

He  will  come  perhaps  at  noontide, 

When  the  pulse  of  life  throbs  high, 
When  the  fruits  of  toil  are  ripening, 

And  the  harvest  time  is  nigh ; 
Then  through  all  the  full-orbed  splendor 

Of  the  sun's  meridian  blaze, 
There  may  shine  a  strange  new  beauty 

Of  the  Lord's  transfigured  face. 

He  will  come  perhaps  at  evening ; 

Gray  and  somber  is  the  sky, 
Clouds  around  the  sunset  gather, 

Full  and  dark  the  shadows  lie ; 

136 


o 


Ube  (Sate  o(  fteaven. 


When  we  long  for  rest  and  slumber, 
And  some  tender  thoughts  of  home 

Fill  the  heart  with  vague,  sad  yearning, 
Then  perhaps  the  Lord  will  come. 

If  He  only  find  us  ready, 

In  the  morning's  happy  light, 
In  the  strong  and  fiery  noontide, 

Or  the  coming  of  the  night ; 
If  He  only  find  us  waiting, 

Listening  to  his  sudden  call, 
Then  his  coming  when  we  think  not, 

Is  the  sweetest  hope  of  all. 


Anon. 


THE  CALYXES   OF   GOLD. 

AND  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low, 
Where  human  kisses  cannot  reach  her  face, 
Oh,  do  not  blame  the  loving  Father  so, 

But  wear  your  sorrow  with  obedient  grace  ! 
And  you  shall  shortly  know  that  lengthened  breath 

Is  not  the  sweetest  gift  God  sends  his  friend, 
And  that,  sometimes,  the  sable  pall  of  death 
Conceals  the  fairest  boon  His  love  can  send. 

If  we  could  push  ajar  the  gates  of  life, 

And  stand  within,  and  all  God's  workings  see, 
We  could  interpret  all  this  doubt  and  strife, 

And  for  each  mystery  find  a  key. 
But  not  to-day.    Then  be  content,  poor  heart ! 

God's  plans  like  lilies  pure  and  white  unfold. 
We  must  not  tear  the  close-shut  leaves  apart, 

Time  will  reveal  the  calyxes  of  gold. 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 


fearless  3LanD, 


ONLY  WAITING.1 

ONLY  waiting  till  the  shadows 
Are  a  little  longer  grown ; 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  the  heart  once  full  of  day ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  are  breaking 
Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home ; 
For  the  summer-time  is  faded, 

And  the  autumn  winds  have  come. 
Quickly,  reapers,  gather  quickly 

The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart, 
For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered, 

And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 

Open  wide  the  mystic  gate, 
At  whose  foot  I  long  have  lingered, 

Weary,  poor  and  desolate. 
Even  now  I  hear  the  footsteps, 

And  their  voices,  far  away ; 
If  they  call  me,  I  am  waiting, 

Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown  ; 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown : 

1 A  very  aged  Christian,  who  was  so  poor  as  to  be  in  an  almshouse,  when  asked 
what  he  was  doing  now,  replied,  "  Only  waiting." 

138 


cUX 


Then  from  out  the  gathered  darkness, 
Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 

By  whose  light  my  soul  shall  gladly 
Tread  its  pathway  to  the  skies. 


IV. 


There  is  a  land  immortalt 

The  beautiful  of  lands; 
Beside  its  ancient  portal 

A  silent  sentry  stands  ; 
He  only  can  undo  it, 

And  open  wide  the  door  ; 
And  mortals  who  pass  through  it 

Are  mortals  never  more. 

—  Thomas  MacKellar. 


141 


<U3 


TO 


Thine  eyes  shall  see  the  king  in  his  beauty :  they  shall  behold  a 
far  stretching  land.  —  Isa.  33  :  77. 

But  now  they  desire  a  better  country,  that  is,  a  heavenly :  where- 
fore God  is  not  ashamed  of  them,  to  be  called  their  God.  —  Heb. 
Ji :  16. 

They  shall  hunger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more;  neither  shall 
the  sun  strike  upon  them,  nor  any  heat :  for  the  Lamb  which  is  in 
the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  be  their  shepherd,  and  shall  guide 
them  unto  fountains  of  waters  of  life :  and  God  shall  wipe  away 
every  tear  from  their  eyes.  —  Rev.  ?  :  16, 17. 


142 


<L*5 


THE   LAND   OF   LOVE. 

BEYOND  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies, 
Beyond  death's  cloudy  portal,  — 
There  is  a  land  where  beauty  never  dies, 
And  love  becomes  immortal,  — 

A  land  whose  light  is  never  dimmed  by  shade, 

Whose  fields  are  ever  vernal, 
Where  nothing  beautiful  can  ever  fade, 

But  bloom  for  aye  eternal. 

We  may  not  know  how  sweet  its  balmy  air, 

How  bright  and  fair  its  flowers ; 
We  may  not  hear  the  songs  that  echo  there, 

Through  those  enchanted  bowers. 

The  city's  shining  towers  we  may  not  see 

With  our  dim  earthly  vision ; 
For  death,  the  silent  warder,  keeps  the  key 

That  opens  these  gates  elysian. 

But  sometimes,  when  adown  the  western  sky 

The  fiery  sunset  lingers, 
Its  golden  gates  swing  inward  noiselessly, 

Unlocked  by  silent  fingers. 

And  while  they  stand  a  moment  half  ajar, 

Gleams  from  the  inner  glory 
Stream  brightly  through  the  azure  vault  afar, 

And  half  reveal  the  story. 


•JO 


Meatless  XanD, 


O  land  unknown  !     O  land  of  love  divine  ! 

Father  all  wise,  eternal, 
Guide,  guide  these  wandering,  wayworn  feet  of  mine 

Into  those  pastures  vernal. 
1860.  —Miss  N.  A.  W.  Priest. 

PARADISE:   IN   A   DREAM. 

ONCE  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  flowers 
That  bud  and  bloom  in  Paradise  ; 
More  fair  they  are  than  waking  eyes 
Have  seen  in  all  this  world  of  ours. 
And  faint  the  perfume-bearing  rose, 

And  faint  the  lily  on  its  stem, 
And  faint  the  perfect  violet 

Compared  with  them. 

I  heard  the  songs  of  Paradise  : 
Each  bird  sat  singing  in  his  place  ; 
A  tender  song  so  full  of  grace 

It  soared  like  incense  to  the  skies. 

Each  bird  sat  singing  to  his  mate 
Soft  cooing  notes  among  the  trees  : 

The  nightingale  herself  were  cold 
To  such  as  these. 

I  saw  the  fourfold  River  flow, 

And  deep  it  was,  with  golden  sand  ; 
It  flowed  between  a  mossy  land 

Which  murmured  music  grave  and  low. 

It  hath  refreshment  for  all  thirst, 

For  fainting  spirits  strength  and  rest  : 

Earth  holds  not  such  a  draught  as  this 
From  east  to  west. 

144 


TO 


XanD* 


The  Tree  of  Life  stood  budding  there, 
Abundant  with  its  twelvefold  fruits ; 
Eternal  sap  sustains  its  roots, 

Its  shadowing  branches  fill  the  air. 

Its  leaves  are  healing  for  the  world, 
Its  fruit  the  hungry  world  can  feed, 

Sweeter  than  honey  to  the  taste 
And  balm  indeed. 

I  saw  the  gate  called  Beautiful ; 

And  looked,  but  scarce  could  look,  within } 

I  saw  the  golden  streets  begin, 
And  outskirts  of  the  glassy  pool. 

0  harps,  O  crowns  of  plenteous  stars, 

O  green  palm  branches  many-leaved  — 
Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard, 
Nor  heart  conceived. 

1  hope  to  see  these  things  again, 

But  not  as  once  in  dreams  by  night ; 
To  see  them  with  my  very  sight, 
And  touch,  and  handle,  and  attain : 
To  have  all  heaven  beneath  my  feet 

For  narrow  way  that  once  they  trod ; 
To  have  my  part  with  all  the  saints, 
And  with  my  GOD. 

—  Christina  G.  Rossetti. 

THE   INCORRUPTIBLE. 

TV  To  joy  is  true,  save  that  which  hath  no  end ; 

No  life  is  true,  save  that  which  liveth  ever ; 
No  health  is  sound,  save  that  which  God  doth  send ; 
No  love  is  real,  save  that  which  changeth  never. 


fearless  Xanfc. 


Heaven  were  no  heaven,  if  its  dear  light  could  fade; 

If  its  fair  glory  could  hereafter  wane  ; 
If  its  sweet  skies  could  suffer  stain  or  shade, 

Or  its  soft  breezes  waft  one  note  of  pain. 

But  now  its  beauty  is  forever  vernal  ; 

Its  glory  is  the  glory  of  its  King, 
Undying,  incorruptible,  eternal; 

And  ever  new  the  song  its  dwellers  sing. 

O  heaven  of  heavens,  how  true  thy  life  must  be  ! 

O  home  of  God,  how  excellent  thy  light  ! 
O  long,  long  summer  of  eternity, 

Bright  noon  of  angels,  ever  clear  and  bright  ! 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 

THAT  CLIME. 

*"FHAT  clime  is  not  like  this  dull  clime  of  ours  ; 
*      All,  all  is  brightness  there  ; 
A  sweeter  influence  breathes  around  its  flowers, 

And  a  benigner  air. 

No  calm  below  is  like  that  calm  above, 
No  region  here  is  like  that  realm  of  love  ; 
Earth's  softest  spring  ne'er  shed  so  soft  a  light, 
Earth's  brightest  summer  never  shone  so  bright. 

That  sky  is  not  like  this  sad  sky  of  ours, 

Tinged  with  earth's  change  and  care  ; 
No  shadow  dims  it,  and  no  rain  cloud  lowers  ; 

No  broken  sunshine  there  : 
One  everlasting  stretch  of  azure  pours 
Its  stainless  splendor  o'er  those  sinless  shores  ; 
For  there  Jehovah  shines  with  heavenly  ray, 
And  Jesus  reigns,  dispensing  endless  day. 

146 


The  dwellers  there  are  not  like  those  of  earth,  — 

No  mortal  stain  they  bear,  — 
And  yet  they  seem  of  kindred  blood  and  birth ; 

Whence  and  how  came  they  there  ? 
Earth  was  their  native  soil ;  from  sin  and  shame, 
Through  tribulation,  they  to  glory  came ; 
Bond-slaves  delivered  from  sin's  crushing  load, 
Brands  plucked  from  burning  by  the  hand  of  God. 

Yon  robes  of  theirs  are  not  like  those  below ; 

No  angel 's  half  so  bright ; 
Whence  came  that  beauty,  whence  that  living  glow, 

And  whence  that  radiant  white  ? 
Washed  in  the  blood  of  the  atoning  Lamb, 
Fair  as  the  light  these  robes  of  theirs  became ; 
And  now,  all  tears  wiped  off  from  every  eye, 
They  wander  where  the  freshest  pastures  lie, 
Through  all  the  nightless  day  of  that  unfading  sky  ! 

—  Anon. 


THE   UNDISCOVERED   COUNTRY. 

THE   QUESTION. 

COULD  we  but  know 
The  land  that  ends  our  dark,  uncertain  travel, 
Where  lie  those  happier  hills  and  meadows  low  \ 
Ah  !  if  beyond  the  spirit's  inmost  cavil 

Aught  of  that  country  could  we  surely  know, 
Who  would  not  go  ? 

Might  we  but  hear 

The  hovering  angels'  high  imagined  chorus, 
Or  catch,  betimes,  with  wakeful  eyes  and  clear 

147 


3be  fearless  3LanD, 

One  radiant  vista  of  the  realm  before  us,  — 
With  one  rapt  moment  given  to  see  and  hear, 
Ah,  who  would  fear? 

Were  we  quite  sure 

To  find  the  peerless  friend  who  left  us  lonely, 
Or  there,  by  some  celestial  stream  as  pure, 
To  gaze  in  eyes  that  here  were  lovelit  only,  — 
This  weary  mortal  coil,  were  we  quite  sure, 
Who  would  endure  ? 

—  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 

THE   ANSWER. 

"Who  would  not  go  " 
With  buoyant  steps,  to  gain  that  blessed  portal, 

Which  opens  to  the  land  we  long  to  know? 
Where  shall  be  satisfied  the  soul's  immortal, 
Where  we  shall  drop  the  wearying  and  the  woe 
In  resting  so? 

"  Ah,  who  would  fear?  " 
Since,  sometimes  through  the  distant  pearly  portal, 

Unclosing  to  some  happy  soul  a-near, 
We  catch  a  gleam  of  glorious  light  immortal, 
And  strains  of  heavenly  music  faintly  hear, 
Breathing  good  cheer ! 

"  Who  would  endure  " 

To  walk  in  doubt  and  darkness  with  misgiving, 
When  he  whose  tender  promises  are  sure  — 
The  Crucified,  the  Lord,  the  Ever-living  — 
Keeps  us  those  "  mansions  "  evermore  secure 
By  waters  pure  ? 
148 


JO 


O  wondrous  land  ! 
Fairer  than  all  our  spirit's  fairest  dreaming : 

"  Eye  hath  not  seen,"  no  heart  can  understand 
The  things  prepared,  the  cloudless  radiance  streaming. 
How  longingly  we  wait  our  Lord's  command  — 
His  opening  hand  ! 

O  dear  ones  there  ! 
Whose  voices,  hushed,  have  left  our  pathway  lonely, 

We  come,  erelong,  your  blessed  home  to  share  ; 
We  take  the  guiding  hand,  we  trust  it  only  — 
Seeing,  by  faith,  beyond  this  clouded  air, 
That  land  so  fair  ! 

—  Anon. 

THE   LAND   OF   WHICH   I   DREAM. 

SURELY  yon  heaven,  where  angels  see  God's  face, 
Is  not  so  distant  as  we  deem 
From  this  low  earth  !  —  'T  is  but  a  little  space, 
The  narrow  crossing  of  a  slender  stream  ;  — 
'T  is  but  a  mist  which  winds  might  blow  aside. 
Yes,  these  are  all  that  us  of  earth  divide 
From  the  bright  dwellings  of  the  glorified ;  — 
The  Land  of  which  I  dream. 

These  peaks  are  nearer  heaven  than  earth  below, 

These  hills  are  higher  than  they  seem  ; 
'T  is  not  the  clouds  they  touch,  nor  the  soft  brow 

Of  the  o'erbending  azure,  as  we  deem : 
'T  is  the  blue  floor  of  heaven  that  they  upbear, 
And,  like  some  old  and  wildly  rugged  stair, 
They  lift  us  to  the  land  where  all  is  fair,  — 

The  Land  of  which  I  dream. 

149 


m 


Gearle06  XanD. 


These  ocean  waves,  in  their  unmeasured  sweep, 

Are  brighter,  bluer  than  they  seem  ; 
True  image  here  of  the  celestial  deep, 

Fed  from  the  fullness  of  the  unfailing  stream  ; 
Heaven's  glassy  sea  of  everlasting  rest, 
With  not  a  breath  to  stir  its  silent  breast, 
The  sea  that  laves  the  land  where  all  are  blest,  — 

The  Land  of  which  I  dream. 

And  these  keen  stars,  the  bridal  gems  of  night, 

Are  purer,  lovelier  than  they  seem  ; 
Filled  from  the  inner  fountain  of  deep  light, 

They  pour  down  heaven's  own  beam  ; 
Clear,  sparkling,  from  their  throne  of  glorious  blue, 
In  accents  ever  ancient,  ever  new, 
Of  the  glad  home  above,  beyond  my  view,  — 

The  Land  of  which  I  dream. 

This  life  of  ours,  these  lingering  years  of  earth, 

Are  briefer,  swifter,  than  they  seem  ; 
A  little  while,  and  the  great  second  birth 

Of  Time  shall  come,  —  the  prophet's  ancient  theme. 
Then  he,  the  King,  the  Judge,  at  length  shall  come, 
And  from  this  desert,  where  we  sadly  roam, 
Shall  give  the  Kingdom,  for  our  endless  home,  — 

The  Land  of  which  I  dream. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


THE   SILENT  LAND. 

INTO  the  Silent  Land  ! 
Ah,  who  shall  lead  us  thither? 
Clouds  in  the  evening  sky  more  darkly  gather, 

150 


And  shattered  wrecks  lie  thicker  on  the  strand. 
Who  leads  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Thither,  oh,  thither, 
Into  the  Silent  Land? 

Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 
To  you,  ye  boundless  regions 
Of  all  perfection  !     Tender  morning  visions 

Of  beauteous  souls  !    The  future's  pledge  and  band  ! 
Who  in  life's  battle  firm  doth  stand 
Shall  bear  hope's  tender  blossoms 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

O  Land  !     O  Land  ! 
For  all  the  broken-hearted  ! 
The  mildest  herald  by  our  fate  allotted 

Beckons,  and  with  inverted  torch  doth  stand 
To  lead  us  with  a  gentle  hand 

Into  the  land  of  the  great  departed, 
Into  the  Silent  Land  ! 

— Johann  Gaudenz  von  Salis.     Tr.  by 
H.  W.  Longfellow. 


THE  VOICEFUL   LAND. 

"  Into  the  Silent  Land ! 
Ah,  who  shall  lead  us  thither?  "     Longfellow. 

is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 


T 


Tones  of  harmonic  spheres, 
Heard  not  by  mortal  ears, 
Thither  their  echoes  roll 
Into  the  answering  soul ; 
Oh  !  't  is  a  Voicefui  Land  ! 


fearless  Xanfc. 


'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Voices  of  angel  throngs 
Rain  down  their  chorus- songs 
Over  ethereal  hills, 
Till  the  rapt  spirit  thrills ; 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land  ! 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Harps,  with  their  golden  strings, 
Dipped  as  in  music  springs, 
Swept  by  the  touch  of  love, 
Ring  in  the  realms  above  ! 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land  ! 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Footsteps  of  spirits  sound 
All  through  the  air  profound, 
Gently  as  wind-tones  make 
Ripples  on  stream  and  lake  ; 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land  ! 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Ever  celestial  wings, 
Bathed  in  the  amber  springs 
Deep  of  God's  ocean  light, 
Fan  the  swift  paths  of  flight ; 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land  ! 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Psalm-breaths  of  joy  arise, 
Pulsing  through  inner  skies, 
When  the  sin-child  returns 
Whither  Truth's  incense  burns ; 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land  ! 

152 


'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Hosts  of  the  pure  and  true, 


Shouts  of  delight  renew 
Round  the  beloved,  fled 
Far  from  the  speechless  dead ) 
Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Welcomes  divine  are  given, 
Whene'er,  death's  fetters  riven, 
Holy  ones  evermore 
Step  on  the  better  shore ; 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land ! 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land  ! 
Far  from  the  song-wrapt  throne 
Peals  the  unchanging  tone, 
Keying  all  notes  above, 
To  the  unisons  of  love  ! 

Oh  !  't  is  a  Voiceful  Land  ! 

—  C.  H.  A.  Bulkley. 

A   LAND  OF  PURE   DELIGHT. 

THERE  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints  immortal  reign ; 
Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 
And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 

And  never  withering  flowers  ; 
Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 

This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 


Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 

Stand  dressed  in  living  green  : 
So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 

While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 
And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

Oh,  could  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 

These  gloomy  doubts  that  rise, 
And  see  the  Canaan  that  we  love 

With  unbeclouded  eyes,  — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 

And  view  the  landscape  o'er,  — 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  death's  cold  flood, 

Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 

—  Isaac  Watts. 


IMMANUEL'S   LAND.1 

'"THE  sands  of  time  are  sinking, 
*      The  dawn  of  heaven  breaks, 
The  summer  morn  I  Ve  sighed  for, 

The  fair,  sweet  morn  awakes  ! 
Dark,  dark  hath  been  the  midnight, 

But  dayspring  is  at  hand, 
And  glory  —  glory  dwelleth 

In  ImmanuePs  land. 


»  Note  6. 


JO 


f>eavenlB  HanD, 


Oh,  well  it  is  for  ever  ! 

Oh,  well  for  evermore  ! 
My  nest  hung  in  no  forest 

Of  all  this  death -doomed  shore. 
Yea,  let  the  vain  world  vanish, 

As  from  the  ship  the  strand, 
While  glory  —  glory  dwelleth 

In  ImmanuePs  land. 

There  the  red  Rose  of  Sharon 

Unfolds  its  heartsome  bloom, 
And  fills  the  air  of  heaven 

With  ravishing  perfume : 
Oh,  to  behold  it  blossom, 

While  by  its  fragrance  fanned, 
While  glory  —  glory  dwelleth 

In  ImmanuePs  land. 

The  King  there,  in  his  beauty, 

Without  a  veil,  is  seen  -, 
It  were  a  well-spent  journey, 

Though  seven  deaths  lay  between. 
The  Lamb,  with  his  fair  army, 

Doth  on  Mount  Zion  stand, 
And  glory  —  glory  dwelleth 

In  ImmanuePs  land. 

Oh,  Christ,  he  is  the  Fountain, 
The  deep,  sweet  well  of  love  ! 

The  streams  on  earth  I  Ve  tasted, 
More  deep  I  '11  drink  above  : 

There,  to  an  ocean  fullness, 
His  mercy  doth  expand, 


tTbe  fearless  Xanfc. 


And  glory  —  glory  dwelleth 
In  Immanuel's  land. 

E'en  Anworth  was  not  heaven  — 

E'en  preaching  was  not  Christ; 
And  in  my  sea-beat  prison 

My  Lord  and  I  held  tryst : 
And  aye  my  murkiest  storm  cloud 

Was  by  a  rainbow  spanned, 
Caught  from  the  glory  dwelling 

In  Immanuel's  land. 

But  that  He  built  a  heaven 

Of  his  surpassing  love, 
A  little  New  Jerusalem, 

Like  to  the  one  above  — 
"  Lord,  take  me  o'er  the  water," 

Had  been  my  loud  demand, 
"  Take  me  to  love's  own  country, 

Unto  Immanuel's  land." 

But  flowers  need  night's  cool  darkness, 

The  moonlight  and  the  dew ; 
So  Christ,  from  one  who  loved  it, 

His  shining  oft  withdrew  : 
And  then,  for  cause  of  absence, 

My  troubled  soul  I  scanned  — 
But  glory,  shadeless,  shineth 

In  Immanuel's  land. 

The  little  birds  at  Anworth 
I  used  to  count  them  blest  — 

Now,  beside  happier  altars 
I  go  to  build  my  nest : 
156 


O'er  these  there  broods  no  silence, 
No  graves  around  them  stand ; 

For  glory,  deathless,  dwelleth 
In  ImmanuePs  land. 

Fair  Anworth  by  the  Solway, 

To  me  thou  still  art  dear ! 
E'en  from  the  verge  of  heaven 

I  drop  for  thee  a  tear. 
Oh,  if  one  soul  from  Anworth 

Meet  me  at  God's  right  hand, 
My  heaven  will  be  t\vo  heavens 

In  ImmanuePs  land. 

I  Ve  wrestled  on  toward  heaven, 

'Gainst  storm,  and  wind,  and  tide 
Now,  like  a  weary  traveler, 

That  leaneth  on  his  guide, 
Amid  the  shades  of  evening, 

While  sinks  life's  lingering  sand, 
I  hail  the  glory  dawning 

From  ImmanuePs  land. 

Deep  waters  crossed  life's  pathway, 

The  hedge  of  thorns  was  sharp  : 
Now,  these  lie  all  behind  me  — 

Oh,  for  a  well-tuned  harp  ! 
Oh,  to  join  hallelujah 

With  yon  triumphant  band, 
Who  sing,  where  glory  dwelleth, 

In  ImmanuePs  land. 

With  mercy  and  with  judgment 
My  web  of  time  He  wove, 


Meatless  XanS. 

And  aye  the  dews  of  sorrow 
Were  lustered  with  his  love  : 

I  '11  bless  the  Hand  that  guided, 
I  '11  bless  the  Heart  that  planned, 

When  throned  where  glory  dwelleth, 
la  Immanuel's  land. 

Soon  shall  the  sup  of  glory 

Wash  down  earth's  bitterest  woes, 
Soon  shall  the  desert's  brier 

Break  into  Eden's  rose ; 
The  curse  shall  change  to  blessing  — 

The  name  on  earth  that 's  banned, 
Be  graven  on  the  white  stone 

In  Immanuel's  land. 

Oh,  I  am  my  Beloved's 

And  my  Beloved  is  mine  ! 
He  brings  a  poor  vile  sinner 

Into  his  "  house  of  wine  "  ! 
I  stand  upon  his  merit, 

I  know  no  safer  stand, 
Not  e'en  where  glory  dwelleth 

In  Immanuel's  land. 

I  shall  sleep  sound  in  Jesus, 

Filled  with  his  likeness  rise, 
To  live  and  to  adore  him, 

To  see  him  with  these  eyes : 
'Tween  me  and  resurrection 

But  Paradise  doth  stand ; 
Then  —  then  for  glory  dwelling 

In  Immanuel's  land. 

158 


The  bride  eyes  not  her  garments, 

But  her  dear  bridegroom's  face  \ 
I  will  not  gaze  at  glory, 

But  on  my  King  of  grace  — 
Not  at  the  crown  he  giveth, 

But  on  his  pierced  hand  : 
The  Lamb  is  all  the  glory 

Of  Immanuel's  land. 

I  have  borne  scorn  and  hatred, 

I  have  borne  wrong  and  shame ; 
Earth's  proud  ones  have  reproached  me, 

For  Christ's  thrice  blessed  name  : 
Where  God's  seal  set  the  fairest, 

They  've  stamped  their  foulest  brand ; 
But  judgment  shines  like  noonday 

In  Immanuel's  land. 

—  Anne  R.  Cousin. 


A  BEAUTIFUL  LAND   BY  THE  SPOILER 
UNTROD. 

'"FHERE  's  a  Beautiful  Land  by  the  Spoiler  untrod, 

Unpolluted  by  sorrow  or  care  ; 
It  is  lighted  alone  by  the  presence  of  God, 

Whose  throne  and  whose  temple  are  there. 
Its  crystalline  streams,  with  a  murmuring  flow, 

Meander  through  valleys  so  green, 
And  its  mountains  of  jasper  are  bright  in  the  glow 

Of  a  splendor  no  mortal  hath  seen. 

And  throngs  of  glad  singers  with  jubilant  breath 
Make  the  air  with  their  melodies  rife ; 

159 


And  one  known  on  earth  as  the  Angel  of  Death 

Shines  here  as  the  Angel  of  Life  ! 
An  infinite  tenderness  beams  from  his  eyes ; 

On  his  brow  is  an  infinite  calm, 

And  his  voice,  as  it  thrills  through  the  depths  of  the 
skies, 

Is  as  sweet  as  the  Seraphim's  psalm. 

Through  the  amaranth  groves  of  the  Beautiful  Land 

Walk  the  souls  who  were  faithful  in  this  ; 
And  their  foreheads,  star- crowned,  by  zephyrs  are  fanned, 

That  evermore  murmur  of  bliss  ; 
They  taste  the  rich  fruitage  that  hangs  from  the  trees, 

And  breathe  the  sweet  odors  of  flowers 
More  fragrant  than  ever  were  kissed  by  the  breeze 

In  Araby's  loveliest  bowers. 

Old  prophets,  whose  words  were  a  spirit  of  flame 

Blazing  out  o'er  the  darkness  of  Time ; 
And  martyrs,  whose  courage  no  tortures  could  tame, 

Nor  turn  from  their  purpose  sublime  ; 
And  Saints  and  Confessors,  a  numberless  throng, 

Who  were  loyal  to  Truth  and  to  Right, 
And  left,  as  they  walked  through  the  darkness  of  Wrong, 

Their  footprints  encircled  with  light ; 

And  the  dear  little  children,  who  went  to  their  rest 

Ere  their  lives  had  been  sullied  by  sin, 
While  the  Angel  of  Morning  still  tarried  a  guest, 

Their  spirit's  pure  temple  within,  — 
All  are  there  —  all  are  there  —  in  the  Beautiful  Land, 

The  land  by  the  Spoiler  untrod. 
And  their  foreheads,  star-crowned,  by  zephyrs  are  fanned, 

That  blow  from  the  Gardens  of  God  ! 
1 60 


l)eax>enl£  XanD* 


My  soul  hath  looked  in  through  the  gateway  of  dreams, 
-  On  the  city  all  paven  with  gold, 
And  though  it  still  waits  on  this  desolate  strand, 

A  Pilgrim  and  stranger  on  earth, 
Yet  it  knew  in  that  glimpse  of  the  Beautiful  Land, 
That  it  gazed  on  the  home  of  its  birth. 

—  Anon. 


161 


Soon  where  beauty  blinds  not, 

No  excess  of  brilliance  palls, 
Salem,  city  of  the  holy, 

We  shall  be  within  thy  walls. 
There  beside  the  crystal  river, 

There  beneath  life's  wondrous  tree% 
There  with  naught  to  sever, 

Ever  with  the  Lamb  to  be. 
Heir  of  glory, 

That  shall  be  for  thee  and  me  / 

—Rev.  Horatiw  Bonar,  DJ>. 


163 


He  looked  for  the  city  which  hath  the  foundations,  whose  builder 
and  maker  is  God.  —  Heb.  n  :  10. 

He  hath  prepared  for  them  a  city.  —  Heb.  n  :  16. 

And  I  saw  the  holy  city,  new  Jerusalem,  coming  down  out  of 
heaven  from  God,  made  ready  as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband. 
—  Rev.  21 :  2. 

And  he  carried  me  away  in  the  Spirit  to  a  mountain  great  and 
high,  and  showed  me  the  holy  city  Jerusalem,  coming  down  out  of 
heaven  from  God,  having  the  glory  of  God.  —  Rev.  21 : 10,  n. 


164 


o 


f>eavenl£ 


JERUSALEM,   THE   HOLY. 

JERUSALEM,  the  holy ! 
Jerusalem,  the  blest ! 
From  highest  heav'n  descending 

In  bridal  beauty  drest : 
Bride  of  the  Lamb !  thy  glory, 

The  light  of  God  alone, 
Shines  through  thee  clear  as  crystal, 
And  like  a  jasper  stone. 

Thy  walls  are  great  and  glorious ; 

Twelve  pearls  are  thy  twelve  gates, 
By  every  gate  an  angel 

For  holy  service  waits  : 
And  names  thereon  are  written, 

Angelic  hands  inscribe 
The  tribes  of  Israel's  children, 

On  every  pearl  a  tribe. 

And  twelve  are  thy  foundations, 

All  precious  stones  most  fair, 
The  names  of  the  apostles 

Are  ever  in  them  there : 
Of  pure  gold  is  the  city, 

And  golden  is  the  street, 
Like  to  clear  glass  transparent 

Beneath  the  saved  ones'  feet 
165 


Geatle66  Xanfc. 


And  therein  is  no  temple, 

No  place  apart  for  prayer, 
For  the  Lord  Almighty,  and 

The  Lamb  thy  temple  are  : 
No  need  of  sun  to  lighten, 

No  need  of  moon  to  shine, 
Thy  sunshine  is  God's  glory, 

The  Lamb  thy  Light  divine. 

The  nations  of  the  sav£d 

Do  walk  there  in  thy  light, 
Thy  gates  by  day  unclosed, 

Within  thy  walls  no  night : 
The  kings  of  earth  their  glory, 

The  queens  their  state  do  bring, 
And  lay  them  down  in  homage 

Before  the  glorious  King. 

There  shall  in  no  wise  enter 

The  things  that  do  defile, 
That  work  abomination, 

And  spoil  God's  truth  with  guile. 
But  those  whose  names  are  written 

In  the  Lamb's  Book  of  Life, 
They  only  shall  be  in  thee, 

Thou  spotless  Bride  and  Wife. 

Jerusalem,  the  holy ! 

My  spirit  longs  to  be 
Within  thy  walls  of  jasper, 

Thy  gates  of  pearl  to  see ; 
And  through  the  sunless 


And  in  thy  moonless  beauty 
God's  glory  to  behold. 

Give  me,  O  Lord,  the  patience 

To  labor  and  endure, 
And,  that  I  may  behold  thee, 

Give  me  a  heart  that 's  pure  : 
Write  thine  own  Name  upon  it, 

That,  after  earth's  long  strife, 
My  name  may  be  found  written 

In  the  Lamb's  Book  of  Life. 

— /.  S.  B.  MonselL 

ZION,  CITY  OF  OUR  GOD. 

Isa.  33 :  20,  21. 

LORIOUS  things  of  thee  are  spoken, 

Zion,  city  of  our  God  ! 
He,  whose  word  cannot  be  broken, 
Formed  thee  for  his  own  abode  : 
On  the  Rock  of  Ages  founded, 

What  can  shake  thy  sure  repose  ? 
With  salvation's  wall  surrounded, 
Thou  may'st  smile  at  all  thy  foes. 

See,  the  streams  of  living  waters, 

Springing  from  eternal  love, 
Well  supply  thy  sons  and  daughters, 

And  all  fears  of  want  remove  : 
Who  can  faint  while  such  a  river 

Ever  flows  their  thirst  t'  assuage  ? 
Grace,  which  like  the  Lord,  the  giver, 

Never  fails  from  age  to  age. 

167 


dbe  fearless  XanD. 


1779. 


Round  each  habitation  hovering, 

See  the  fire  and  cloud  appear, 
For  a  glory  and  a  covering, 

Showing  that  the  Lord  is  near. 
Thus  deriving  from  their  banner 

Light  by  night,  and  shade  by  day, 
Safe  they  feed  upon  the  manna 

Which  he  gives  them  when  they  pray. 

Blest  inhabitants  of  Zion, 

Washed  in  the  Redeemer's  blood  ! 
Jesus,  whom  their  souls  rely  on, 

Makes  them  kings  and  priests  to  God. 
'T  is  his  love  his  people  raises 

Over  self  to  reign  as  kings, 
And  as  priests,  his  solemn  praises 

Each  for  a  thank-offering  brings. 

Saviour,  if  of  Zion's  city 

I  through  grace  a  member  am, 
Let  the  world  deride  or  pity, 

I  will  glory  in  thy  name. 
Fading  is  the  worldling's  pleasure, 

All  his  boasted  pomp  and  show ; 
Solid  joys  and  lasting  treasure 

None  but  Zion's  children  know. 

— John  Newton, 

THE   CITY   GOD   HATH   MADE. 

DAILY,  daily  sing  the  praises 
Of  the  city  God  hath  made ; 
In  the  beauteous  fields  of  Eden 
Its  foundation  stones  are  laid. 

1 68 


<i>0» 


tlbe  1>ea\>eni£ 


CHORUS  :  —  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  of  angels 

Here  to  spread  and  heavenward  fly, 
I  would  seek  the  gates  of  Zion 
Far  beyond  the  starry  sky. 

All  the  walls  of  that  dear  city 

Are  of  bright  and  burnished  gold ; 

It  is  matchless  in  its  beauty, 
And  its  treasures  are  untold. 

In  the  midst  of  that  dear  city, 
Christ  is  reigning  on  his  seat, 

And  the  angels  swing  their  censers 
In  a  ring  about  his  feet. 

From  the  throne  a  river  issues, 
Clear  as  crystal,  passing  bright, 

And  it  traverses  the  city 

Like  a  sudden  beam  of  light. 

Where  it  waters  leafy  Eden, 
Rolling  over  silver  sands, 

Sit  the  angels  softly  chiming 

On  the  harps  between  their  hands. 

There  the  meadows,  green  and  dewy, 
Shine  with  lilies  wondrous  fair, 

Thousand,  thousand  are  the  colors 
Of  the  waving  flowers  there. 

There  the  forests  ever  blossom, 
Like  our  orchards  here  in  May ; 

There  the  gardens  never  wither, 
But  eternally  are  gay. 

169 


<u> 


JO 


fearless  Xano. 


1867. 


There  are  roses  and  carnations, 

There  the  honeysuckles  twine ; 
There,  along  the  river  edges, 

Golden  jonquils  ever  shine. 

There  the  water  lilies  open, 

Lying  on  the  sea  of  glass  ; 
There  the  yellow  crocus  glimmers 

Like  a  flame  amidst  the  grass. 

There  the  wind  is  sweetly  fragrant, 

And  is  laden  with  the  song 
Of  the  seraphs  and  the  elders 

And  the  great  redeemed  throng. 

Oh,  I  would  my  ears  were  open 

Here  to  catch  that  happy  strain  ! 
Oh,  I  would  my  eyes  some  vision 

Of  that  Eden  could  attain  ! 

—  Sabine  Baring-  Gould. 


THE   FAIRER   LIGHT. 

"  The  city  hath  no  need  of  the  sun,  neither  of  the  moon,  to  shine 
in  it :  for  the  glory  of  God  did  lighten  it." 

O  RIGHT  sun  !  thou  dost  blessedly  shine ; 
*— '  Fair  earth  doth  rejoice  in  thy  light ; 
She  draweth  her  beauty  from  thine  : 

Thou  makest  her  gladsome  and  bright 
We  bless  thy  strong  splendor  at  noon, 

We  bless  thy  sweet  radiance  at  even, 
And  welcome  the  soft-shining  moon 

When  earth  to  her  bright  sway  is  given. 

170 


But  fairer,  but  fuller  the  light 

Through  the  Heavenly  City  that  streams ; 
Jerusalem  shineth  all  bright, 

But  not  with  the  sun's  golden  beams  : 
Your  smile,  sun  and  moon,  she  can  spare  £ 

Ye  bear  in  his  glory  no  part : 
Thou  only,  dear  Lord,  beamest  there ; 

Her  glory,  her  sunshine  thou  art. 

Her  smile  from  thy  beams  she  doth  take ; 

Her  light  in  thy  light  she  doth  see ; 
Her  music  and  mirth  thou  dost  make ; 

Her  beauty  she  borrows  from  thee. 
All  bathed  in  the  Glory  Divine, 

Still,  still  she  abides  in  thy  light ; 
Her  Sun  never  ceaseth  to  shine, 

Her  day  never  yieldeth  to  night. 

Here  bright  are  the  beams  of  thy  sun : 
Here  sweet  are  the  rays  of  thy  grace  : 

But  there  both  the  glories  are  one, 

'   Are  one  in  the  Light  of  thy  face. 

The  Sun  in  their  souls  that  did  glow, 
Now  bright  on  thy  saints  doth  arise ; 

The  joy  of  their  hearts  here  below 
Becomes  the  delight  of  their  eyes. 

They  look  on  the  Lord  of  their  love, 
The  Lamb  that  was  slain  they  behold  ; 

He  maketh  the  glory  above ; 
He  lighteth  the  city  of  gold. 

They  gaze  on  their  Sun  and  grow  bright  j 
His  beauty,  his  splendor  they  wear ; 

171 


They  see  the  ineffable  sight : 

The  unspeakable  glory  they  share 


Lord  !  here  in  my  heart  dost  thou  shine? 

Art  thou  my  soul's  sunlight  below  ? 
O  then  in  that  City  Divine, 

Full,  full  on  mine  eyes  thou  wilt  glow. 
For  me  as  for  all  the  glad  throng 

Thou  makest  Jerusalem  bright ; 
And  still  the  glad  stream  of  our  song 

Flows  on  midst  the  bliss  of  thy  light. 

—  Thomas  H.  GilL 


THE   CITY   OF   REST. 

"  And  the  name  of  that  city  is  rest." 

O  BIRDS  from  out  the  east,  O  birds  from  out  the  west, 
Have  ye  found  that  happy  city  in  all  your  weary 

quest  ? 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  from  earth's  wandering  may  the  heart 

find  glad  surcease, 

Can  ye  show  me  as  an  earnest  any  olive  branch  of  peace  ? 
I   am   weary  of  life's  troubles,  of  its  sin  and  toil   and 

care; 
I  am  faithless,  crushing  in  my  heart  so  many  a  fruitless 

prayer. 

O  birds  from  out  the  east,  O  birds  from  out  the  west, 
Can  ye  tell  me  of  that  city  the  name  of  which  is  Rest  ? 

Say,  doth  a  dreamy  atmosphere  that  blessed  city  crown  ? 
Are  there   couches  spread  for  sleeping  softer  than  the 
eider-down  ? 

172 


<i-0> 


70 


Does  the  silver  sound  of  waters,  falling  'twixt  its  marble 

walls, 

Hush  its  solemn  silence  even  into  stiller  intervals  ? 
Doth   the  poppy  shed  its  influence  there,   or  doth  the 

fabled  moly 
With  its  leafy-laden  Lethe,  lade  the  eyes  with  slumber 

holy  ? 

Do  they  never  wake  to  sorrow,  who,  after  toilsome  quest, 
Have  entered  in  that  city,  the  name  of  which  is  Rest  ? 

Doth  the  fancy  wile  not  there  for  aye  ?     Is  the  restless 

soul's  endeavor 

Hushed  in  a  rhythm  of  solemn  calm,  forever  and  forever? 
Are  human  natures  satisfied  of  their  intense  desire  ? 
Is  there  no  more  good  beyond  to  seek,  or  do  they  not 

aspire  ? 

But  weary,  weary  of  the  ore  within  its  yellow  sun, 
Do  they  lie  and  eat  its  lotus  leaves  and  dream  life's  toil 

is  done? 
O  tell  me,  do  they  there  forget  what  here  hath   made 

them  blest, 
Nor  sigh  again  for  home  and  friends,  in  the  city  named 

Rest? 

O  little  birds,  fly  east  again,  —  O  little  birds,  fly  west ; 
Ye  have  found  no  happy  city  in  all  your  weary  quest. 
Still  shall  ye  find  no  spot  of  rest  wherever  ye  may  stray, 
And  still  like  you  the  human  soul  must  wing  its  weary 

way; 
There  sleepeth  no   such   city  within   the   wide   earth's 

bound, 
Nor  hath   the  dreaming  fancy  yet  its   blissful   portals 

found. 


fearless  XanD. 


We  are  but  children  crying  here  upon  a  mother's  breast, 
For  life  and   peace   and   blessedness,   and  for  eternal 
Rest! 

Bless  God,  I  hear  a  still,  small  voice  above  life's  clamor- 

ous din, 

Saying,  Faint  not,  O  weary  one,  thou  yet  mayst  enter  in  ; 
That  city  is  prepared  for  those  who  well  do  win  the  fight, 
Who  tread  the  wine-press  till  its  blood  hath  washed  their 

garments  white. 

Within  it  is  no  darkness,  nor  any  baleful  flower 
Shall  there  oppress   thy  weeping   eyes   with  stupefying 

power. 
It  lieth   calm   within   the   light  of  God's   peace-giving 

breast  ; 
Its  walls  are  called  Salvation,  the  city's  name  is  Rest  ! 

—  Household  Words. 


IN   YONDER   REALMS   OF   LIGHT 

HIGH  in  yonder  realms  of  light, 
Far  above  these  lower  skies, 
Fair,  and  exquisitely  bright, 

Heaven's  unfading  mansions  rise. 
Built  of  pure  and  massy  gold, 

Strong  and  durable  are  they, 
Decked  with  gems  of  worth  untold, 
Subjected  to  no  decay. 

Glad  within  these  blest  abodes 
Dwell  the  raptured  saints  above, 

Where  no  anxious  care  corrodes, 
Happy  in  Immanuel's  love ; 

174 


I  hear  a  still,  small  voice, 

saying,  "Faint  not."     Page  174. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


Once,  indeed,  like  us  below, 
Pilgrims  in  this  vale  of  tears, 

Torturing  pain,  and  heavy  woe, 
Gloomy  doubts,  distressing  fears, 

These,  alas,  full  well  they  knew, 

Sad  companions  of  their  way ; 
Oft  on  them  the  tempest  blew 

Through  the  long  and  cheerless  day. 
Oft  their  vileness  they  deplored ; 

Wills  perverse,  and  hearts  untrue, 
Grieved  they  could  not  love  their  Lord, 

Love  him  as  they  wished  to  do. 

Oft  the  big,  unbidden  tears, 

Stealing  down  the  furrowed  cheek, 
Told,  with  eloquence  sincere, 

Tales  of  woe  they  could  not  speak ; 
But  these  days  of  weeping  o'er, 

Past  this  scene  of  toil  and  pain, 
They  shall  know  distress  no  more, 

Never,  never  weep  again. 

Mid  the  chorus  of  the  skies, 

Mid  the  angelic  lyres  above, 
Hark,  their  songs  melodious  rise, 

Songs  of  praise  to  Jesus'  love. 
Happy  spirits  !  ye  are  fled 

Where  no  grief  can  entrance  find, 
Lulled  to  rest  the  aching  head, 

Soothed  the  sorrows  of  the  mind. 


Gbe  fearless  Xanfc. 


There  no  cloud  can  intervene, 

There  no  angry  tempest  blows. 
Every  tear  is  wiped  away ; 

Sighs  no  more  shall  heave  the  breast, 
Night  is  lost  in  endless  day, 

Sorrow  in  eternal  rest. 

—  Thomas  Raffles. 


BATHED   IN   UNFALLEN   SUNLIGHT. 

BATHED  in  un fallen  sunlight, 
Itself  a  sun-born  gem, 
Fair  gleams  the  glorious  city, 
The  new  Jerusalem  ! 
City  fairest, 
Splendor  rarest, 

Let  me  gaze  on  thee  ! 

Calm  in  her  queenly  glory, 

She  sits,  all  joy  and  light; 
Pure  in  her  bridal  beauty, 
Her  raiment  festal-white  ! 
Home  of  gladness, 
Free  from  sadness, 
Let  me  dwell  in  thee  ! 

Shading  her  golden  pavement 

The  tree  of  life  is  seen, 
Its  fruit-rich  branches  waving, 
Celestial  evergreen. 
Tree  of  wonder, 
Let  me  under 
Thee  forever  rest ! 

176 


Tbeavenlg  Cits* 


Fresh  from  the  throne  of  Godhead, 

Bright  in  its  crystal  gleam, 
Bursts  out  the  living  fountain, 
Swells  on  the  living  stream. 
Blessed  river, 
Let  me  ever 

Feast  my  eye  on  thee  ! 

Streams  of  true  life  and  gladness, 
Spring  of  all  health  and  peace  ; 
No  harps  by  thee  hang  silent, 
Nor  happy  voices  cease. 
Tranquil  river, 
Let  me  ever 

Sit  and  sing  by  thee  ! 

River  of  God,  I  greet  thee, 
Not  now  afar,  but  near  ; 
My  soul  to  thy  still  waters 
Hastes  in  its  thirstings  here. 
Holy  river, 
Let  me  ever 

Drink  of  only  thee  ! 

—Horatius  Sonar. 


177 


>0 


VI. 


Ibome, 


O  sweet  and  blessed  country, 

The  home  of  the  elect, 
O  sweet  and  blessed  country, 

That  eager  hearts  expect: 
Jesus,  in  mercy  bring  us 

To  that  dear  land  of  rest, 
Who  art  with  God  the  Father, 

And  Spirit,  ever  blest. 

—  Bernard  of  Cluny. 


Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled :  ye  believe  in  God,  believe  also  in 
me.  In  my  Father's  house  are  many  mansions;  if  it  were  not  so,  I 
would  have  told  you;  for  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you.  And  if 
I  go  and  prepare  a  place  for  you,  I  come  again,  and  will  receive  you 
unto  myself;  that  where  I  am,  there  ye  may  be  also.  —  John  14  : 1-3. 

For  we  know  that  if  the  earthly  house  of  our  tabernacle  be  dis- 
solved, we  have  a  building  from  God,  a  house  not  made  with  hands, 
eternal,  in  the  heavens.  —  2  Cor.  5  .•  /. 


180 


Gbe 


Ibome. 


BLESSED 


HOME. 


'"FHERE  is  a  blessed  home 

Beyond  this  land  of  woe, 
Where  trials  never  come, 

Nor  tears  of  sorrow  flow ; 
Where  faith  is  lost  in  sight, 

And  patient  hope  is  crowned, 
And  everlasting  light 

Its  glory  throws  around. 

There  is  a  land  of  peace, 

Good  angels  know  it  well, 
Glad  songs  that  never  cease 

Within  its  portals  swell ; 
Around  its  glorious  throne 

Ten  thousand  saints  adore 
Christ,  with  the  Father  one 

And  Spirit  evermore. 

O  joy  all  joys  beyond, 

To  see  the  Lamb  who  died, 
And  count  each  sacred  wound 

In  hands  and  feet  and  side ; 
To  give  to  him  the  praise 

Of  every  triumph  won, 
And  sing  through  endless  days 

The  great  things  he  hath  done. 
181 


Gbe  fearless  Xanfc, 


1861. 


Look  up,  ye  saints  of  God, 

Nor  fear  to  tread  below 
The  path  your  Saviour  trod 

Of  daily  toil  and  woe  ; 
Wait  but  a  little  while 

In  uncomplaining  love, 
His  own  most  gracious  smile 

Shall  welcome  you  above. 

—  Sir  Henry  Williams  Baker. 


WHERE   THE   STARS   ARE   BURNING. 

UPWARD,  where  the  stars  are  burning, 
Silent,  silent  in  their  turning 
Round  the  never-changing  pole  ; 
Upward,  where  the  sky  is  brightest, 
Upward,  where  the  blue  is  lightest, 
Lift  I  now  my  longing  soul ! 

Far  above  that  arch  of  gladness, 
Far  beyond  those  clouds  of  sadness, 

Are  the  many  mansions  fair  ! 
Far  from  pain,  and  sin,  and  folly, 
In  that  palace  of  the  holy, 

I  would  find  my  mansion  there  ! 

Where  the  glory  brightly  dwelleth, 
Where  the  new  song  sweetly  swelleth, 

And  the  discord  never  comes ; 
Where  life's  stream  is  ever  laving, 
And  the  palm  is  ever  waving  — 

That  must  be  the  home  of  homes  ! 
182 


JO 


Cbe  Ibeavenlg  ibome. 

Where  the  Lamb  on  high  is  seated, 
By  ten  thousand  voices  greeted, 

Lord  of  lords,  and  King  of  kings  ! 
Son  of  man,  they  crown,  they  crown  him  ! 
Son  of  God,  they  own,  they  own  him  ! 

With  his  name  the  palace  rings  ! 

Blessing,  honor,  without  measure, 
Heavenly  riches,  earthly  treasure, 

Lay  we  at  his  blesse'd  feet  ! 
Poor  the  praise  that  now  we  render  ; 
Loud  shall  be  our  voices  yonder, 

When  before  his  throne  we  meet  ! 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 


A   HOME   IN    HEAVEN. 

A    HOME  in  heaven  !  what  a  joyful  thought, 
*"*.    As  the  poor  man  toils  in  his  weary  lot  ! 
His  heart  opprest,  and  with  anguish  driven, 
From  his  home  below,  to  his  home  in  heaven. 

A  home  in  heaven  !  as  the  sufferer  lies 
On  his  bed  of  pain,  and  uplifts  his  eyes 
To  that  bright  home  ;  what  a  joy  is  given, 
With  the  blessed  thought  of  his  home  in  heaven 

A  home  in  heaven  !  when  our  pleasures  fade, 
And  our  wealth  and  fame  in  the  dust  are  laid  ; 
And  strength  decays,  and  our  health  is  riven, 
We  are  happy  still  with  our  home  in  heaven. 

A  home  in  heaven  !  when  the  faint  heart  bleeds, 
By  the  Spirit's  stroke,  for  its  evil  deeds  ; 

183 


fearless  Xanfc. 


Oh.  then  what  bliss  in  that  heart  forgiven, 
Does  the  hope  inspire  of  a  home  in  heaven  ! 

A  home  in  heaven  !  when  our  friends  are  fled 
To  the  cheerless  gloom  of  the  mouldering  dead  ; 
We  wait  in  hope  on  the  promise  given  ; 
We  will  meet  up  there  in  our  home  in  heaven. 

A  home  in  heaven  !  when  the  wheel  is  broke, 
And  the  golden  bowl  by  the  terror-stroke  ; 
When  life's  bright  sun  sinks  in  death's  dark  even, 
We  will  then  fly  up  to  our  home  in  heaven. 

Our  home  in  heaven  !  oh,  the  glorious  home  ! 
And  the  Spirit,  join'd  with  the  Bride,  says  "  Come  !  " 
Come,  seek  his  face,  and  your  sins  forgiven, 
And  rejoice  in  hope  of  your  home  in  heaven  ! 

—  William  Hunter. 

A  DWELLING  PLACE  ABOVE. 

THERE  is  a  dwelling  place  above  ; 
Thither,  to  meet  the  God  of  love, 
The  poor  in  spirit  go  : 
There  is  a  paradise  of  rest  ; 
For  contrite  hearts  and  souls  distrest 
Its  streams  of  comfort  flow. 

There  is  a  goodly  heritage, 

Where  earthly  passions  cease  to  rage  ; 

The  meek  that  haven  gain  : 
There  is  a  board,  where  they  who  pine, 
Hungry,  athirst,  for  grace  divine, 

May  feast,  nor  crave  again. 

184 


JO 


t>ome, 

There  is  a  voice  to  mercy  true ; 
To  them  who  mercy's  path  pursue 

That  voice  shall  bliss  impart : 
There  is  a  sight  from  man  concealed  j 
That  sight,  the  face  of  God  revealed, 

Shall  bless  the  pure  in  heart. 

There  is  a  name,  in  heaven  bestowed ; 
That  name,  which  hails  them  sons  of  God, 

The  friends  of  peace  shall  know  : 
There  is  a  kingdom  in  the  sky, 
Where  they  shall  reign  with  God  on  high, 

Who  serve  him  best  below. 

Lord  !  be  it  mine  like  them  to  choose 
The  better  part,  like  them  to  use 

The  means  thy  love  hath  given ; 
Be  holiness  my  aim  on  earth, 
That  death  be  welcome  as  a  birth 

To  life  and  bliss  in  heaven  ! 
1 83 1 .  —  Bishop  R.  Mant. 


THE   SAFE   NEST. 

T  BUILT  my  nest  by  a  pleasant  stream, 

*     That  glided  on  with  a  smile  in  its  gleam, 

Bringing  me  gold  that  was  sumless ; 
Ah  me  !  but  the  floods  came  drowning  one  day, 
And  swept  my  nest  with  its  wealth  away ; 

I  in  the  world  was  homeless  ! 

I  built  my  nest  in  a  gay  green  tree, 
And  the  summer  of  life  went  merrily 

With  us ;  we  were  birds  of  a  feather ! 


XTbe  fearless  OLanD. 


But  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  my  pretty  ones  flew, 
And  through  my  nest  the  bitter  winds  blew ; 
T  was  bare  in  the  wildest  weather. 

I  built  my  nest  under  heaven's  high  eaves ; 
No  rising  of  floods,  no  falling  of  leaves, 

Can  mock  my  heart's  endeavor ; 
Waters  may  wash,  and  breezes  may  blow, 
In  the  bosom  of  Rest  I  shall  smile,  I  shall  know 

My  nest  is  safe  forever. 

—  Gerald  Massey. 

SAFE   HOME  IN   PORT. 

O  AFE  home  !  safe  home  in  port ! 
^     —  Rent  cordage,  shattered  deck, 
Torn  sails,  provisions  short, 

And  only  not  a  wreck  : 
But  oh  !  the  joy  upon  the  shore, 
To  tell  our  voyage-perils  o'er  ! 

The  prize  !  the  prize  secure  ! 

The  athlete  nearly  fell ; 
Bare  all  he  could  endure, 

Arid  bare  not  always  well : 
But  he  may  smile  at  troubles  gone 
Who  sets  the  victor-garland  on  ! 

No  more  the  foe  can  harm  : 

No  more  of  leaguered  camp, 
And  cry  of  night-alarm, 

And  need  of  ready  lamp  : 
And  yet  how  nearly  he  had  failed,  — 
How  nearly  had  that  foe  prevailed  ! 
186 


1bome. 


The  lamb  is  in  the  fold, 

In  perfect  safety  penned  : 
The  lion  once  had  hold, 

And  thought  to  make  an  end ; 
But  One  came  by  with  wounded  side, 
And  for  the  sheep  the  Shepherd  died. 

The  exile  is  at  home  ! 

—  O  nights  and  days  of  tears, 
O  longings  not  to  roam, 

O  sins,  and  doubts,  and  fears,  — 
What  matter  now,  when  (so  men  say) 
The  King  has  wiped  those  tears  away  ? 

O  happy,  happy  Bride  ! 

Thy  widowed  hours  are  past, 
The  Bridegroom  at  thy  side, 

Thou  all  his  own  at  last ! 
The  sorrows  of  thy  former  cup 
In  full  fruition  swallowed  up. 

—  Joseph  of  the  Studium. 


Tr.  by 


John  Mason  Neale. 

THE   LAND   WHERE   MY   NESTLINGS   BE. 
A    SONG  of  a  boat : 

**     There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow, 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote, 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  like  snow, 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow, 
And  bent  like  wand  of  willow. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  courtesying  over  a  billow ; 
I  marked  her  course,  till,  a  dancing  mote, 

187 


fearless  Xano. 


She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 
And  I  stayed  behind,  in  the  dear,  loved  home : 
And  my  thoughts  all  day  were  about  the  boat, 
And  my  dream  upon  a  pillow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat, 

For  it  is  but  short ; 
My  boat,  you  shall  find  nothing  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  I  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open,  desolate  sea, 
And  I  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly  shore, 

For  he  came  not  back  to  me  ! 

Ah,  me  ! 
A  song  of  a  nest : 

There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow, 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  pressed, 
Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  brim ; 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 

With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long ; 
You  shall  never  light,  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among  — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter, 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah,  happy,  happy  I ! 
Right  dearly  I  loved  them  :  but  when  they  were  grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly  — 
188 


I 


:<fe 


1bome. 


Oh,  one  after  one  they  flew  away, 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue, 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 

And  —  I  wish  I  was  going  too. 

I  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me  — 

My  empty  nest  ? 
And  what  is  the  shore,  where  I  stood  to  see 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was  set, 

Now  all  its  hopes  have  failed  ? 
Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 

And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be  : 
There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  sent  — 

The  only  home  for  me  — 

Ah,  me  1 

—Jean  Ingelow. 


VII. 

•Reunions  in  Ibeavem 


We  are  quite  sure 
That  He  will  give  them  back, 

Bright,  pure  and  beautiful ; 
We  know  that  He  will  but  keep 
Our  own  and  His  until  we  fall  asleep; 
We  know  that  He  does  not  mean 
To  break  the  strands  reaching  between 

The  Here  and  There; 
He  does  not  mean,  though  heaven  be  fairt 
To  change  the  spirits  entering  theret 

That  they  forget* 


—Anon. 


191 


cU^ 


JO 


But  we  would  not  have  you  ignorant,  brethren,  concerning  them 
that  fall  asleep;  that  ye  sorrow  not,  even  as  the  rest,  which  have  no 
hope.  For  if  we  believe  that  Jesus  died  and  rose  again,  even  so 
them  also  that  are  fallen  asleep  in  Jesus  will  God  bring  with  him.  — 
/  Thess.  4  : 13, 14. 

For  the  Lord  himself  shall  descend  from  heaven,  with  a  shout, 
with  the  voice  of  the  archangel,  and  with  the  trump  of  God :  and 
the  dead  in  Christ  shall  rise  first :  then  we  that  are  alive,  that  are 
left,  shall  together  with  them  be  caught  up  in  the  clouds,  to  meet 
the  Lord  in  the  air:  and  so  shall  we  ever  be  with  the  Lord. 
Wherefore  comfort  one  another  with  these  words.  —  /  Thess.  4: 
26-18. 


192 


•Reunions  in  Ibeaven. 


THE   MEETING-PLACE. 

\WHERE  the  faded  flower  shall  freshen, 

*  *       Freshen  never  more  to  fade ; 
Where  the  shaded  sky  shall  brighten, 

Brighten  never  more  to  shade  ; 
Where  the  sun-blaze  never  scorches ; 

Where  the  star-beams  cease  to  chill ; 
Where  no  tempest  stirs  the  echoes 

Of  the  wood,  or  wave,  or  hill ; 
Where  the  morn  shall  wake  in  gladness, 

And  the  noon  the  joy  prolong ; 
Where  the  daylight  dies  in  fragrance 

Mid  the  burst  of  holy  song  — 
Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
Mid  the  holy  and  the  blest. 

Where  no  shadow  shall  bewilder ; 

Where  life's  vain  parade  is  o'er ; 
Where  the  sleep  of  sin  is  broken, 

And  the  dreamer  dreams  no  more  ; 
Where  the  bond  is  never  severed  — 

Partings,  claspings,  sobs,  and  moan, 
Midnight  waking,  twilight  weeping, 

Heavy  noontide  —  all  are  done  ; 
Where  the  child  has  found  its  mother, 

Where  the  mother  finds  the  child ; 
Where  dear  families  are  gathered 

That  were  scattered  on  the  wild  — 


JO 


Cbe  fearless 


Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
Mid  the  holy  and  the  blest. 

Where  the  hidden  wound  is  healed  $ 

Where  the  blighted  rose  re-blooms } 
Where  the  smitten  heart  the  freshness 

Of  its  buoyant  youth  resumes ; 
Where  the  love  that  here  we  lavish 

On  the  withering  leaves  of  time, 
Shall  have  fadeless  flowers  to  fix  on, 

In  an  ever  spring-bright  clime ; 
Where  we  find  the  joy  of  loving, 

As  we  never  loved  before ; 
Loving  on  unchilled,  unhindered, 

Loving  once  and  evermore  — 
Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
Mid  the  holy  and  the  blest. 

Where  a  blasted  world  shall  brighten 

Underneath  a  bluer  sphere, 
And  a  softer,  gentler  sunshine 

Shed  its  healing  splendor  here ; 
Where  earth's  barren  vales  shall  blossom, 

Putting  on  their  robe  of  green, 
And  a  purer,  fairer  Eden 

Be  where  only  wastes  have  been ; 
Where  a  King,  in  kingly  glory 

Such  as  earth  has  never  known, 
Shall  assume  the  righteous  scepter, 

Claim  and  wear  the  heavenly  crown  — 
Brother,  we  shall  meet  and  rest 
Mid  the  holy  and  the  blest. 

—  Anon. 

194 


•Reunions  in  tbeaven, 

OVER  THE  RIVER   THEY   BECKON   TO   ME. 

OVER  the  river  they  beckon  to  me, 
Loved  ones  who  've  crossed  to  the  further  side, 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue, 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view ; 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there, 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see ; 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me. 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale, 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark, 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark ; 
We  know  she  is  safe  on  the  further  side, 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be ; 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 
Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale ; 

We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 
And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail ; 

And  lo  !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  hearts, 
They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye. 


{Tearless  XanD. 

We  may  not  sunder  the  veil  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day, 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea ; 
Yet  somewhere  I  know  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar ; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail, 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand, 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 

—  Nancy  A.  W.  Priest. 


HOUSEHOLD   VOICES. 

T  LONG  for  household  voices  gone, 
•"•     For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 
But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 
And  he  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 


IReunione  in  f>eaven, 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are*  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruise" d  reed  he  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar ; 
No  harm  from  him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  and  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  his  islands  lift 

Their  fronded  palms  in  air ; 
I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 

Beyond  his  love  and  care. 

—John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


FUTURITY. 

A  ND,  O  beloved  voices,  upon  which 
**     Ours  passionately  call,  because  erelong 
Ye  brake  off  in  the  middle  of  that  song 
We  sang  together  softly,  to  enrich 
The  poor  world  with  the  sense  of  love,  and  witch 
The  heart  out  of  things  evil,  —  I  am  strong, 
Knowing  ye  are  not  lost  for  aye  among 
The  hills,  with  last  year's  thrush.     God  keeps  a  niche 
In  heaven  to  hold  our  idols  :  and  albeit 
He  brake  them  to  our  faces,  and  denied 
That  our  close  kisses  should  impair  their  white,  — 
I  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised,  complete, 
The  dust  swept  from  their  beauty,  —  glorified 
New  Memnons  singing  in  the  great  God- light. 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

197 


d>0> 


tTbe  Gearlese  XanD* 


THE   GATHERING   PLACE. 


IKNOW  not  where,  beneath,  above, 
The  gathering  place  so  wonderful, 
But  all  who  fill  our  life  with  love, 
Go  forth  to  make  it  beautiful. 
Oh,  rich  with  all  the  wealth  of  grace, 
Oh,  bright  with  many  a  holy  face, 
Is  that  exalted  meeting  place  ! 

With  passing  months  it  comes  more  near, 

It  grows  more  real  day  by  day ; 
Not  strange  or  cold,  but  very  dear, 

The  glad  homeland  not  far  away  ! 
Where  no  sea  toucheth,  making  moan, 
Where  none  are  poor,  or  sick,  or  lone, 
The  place  where  we  shall  find  our  own. 

And  as  we  think  of  all  we  knew, 

Who  there  have  met,  and  part  no  more, 

Our  longing  hearts  desire  home,  too, 
With  all  the  strife  and  trouble  o'er. 

So  poor  this  world,  now  they  have  gone, 

We  scarcely  dare  to  think  upon 

The  years  before  our  rest  is  won. 

And  yet  our  Father  knoweth  best, 

The  joy  or  sadness  that  we  need, 
The  time  when  we  may  take  our  rest 
And  be  from  sin  and  sorrow  freed. 
So  we  will  wait  with  patient  grace, 
Till  in  that  blessed  gathering  place 
We  meet  our  friends,  and  see  His  face. 


—  Anon. 


198 


<u> 


IReunions  in  Ibeavetu 


GOD   GIVES  WHAT   HE   GIVES. 

D  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you  sigh  ! 

Nay,  there  let  me  break  with  your  pain 
God  's  generous  in  giving,  say  I : 
And  the  thing  which  he  gives,  I  deny 
That  he  ever  can  take  back  again. 

He  's  ours  and  forever.     Believe, 

O  father  !  O  mother  !  look  back 
To  the  first  love's  assurance.     To  give 
Means  with  God  not  to  tempt  or  deceive 
With  a  cup  thrust  in  Benjamin's  sack. 

He  gives  what  he  gives.     Be  content ! 

He  resumes  nothing  given  —  be  sure  ! 
God  lend  ?     Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  his  temple,  indignant  he  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  impure. 

He  lends  not ;  but  gives  to  the  end, 
As  he  loves  to  the  end.     If  it  seem 

That  he  draws  back  a  gift,  comprehend 

'T  is  to  add  to  it  rather,  —  amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream  ;  — 

Or  keep,  —  as  a  mother  may  toys 

Too  costly,  though  given  by  herself, 

Till  the  room  shall  be  stiller  from  noise, 

And  the  children  more  fit  for  such  joys, 

Kept  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

So  look  up,  friends  !  you,  who  indeed 

Have  possessed  in  your  house  a  sweet  piece 

199 


Cbe  Gearless 


Of  the  heaven  which  men  strive  for,  must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are  —  speed 
Where  they  loiter,  persist  where  they  cease. 

You  know  how  one  angel  smiles  there. 

Then  courage  !     'T  is  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and  despair 

To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu. 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


MY   DEAD. 

1  CANNOT  think  of  them  as  dead 
Who  walk  with  me  no  more ; 
Along  the  path  of  life  I  tread 
They  have  but  gone  before. 

The  Father's  house  is  mansioned  fair 

Beyond  my  vision  dim ; 
All  souls  are  his,  and  here  or  there 

Are  living  unto  him. 

And  still  their  silent  ministry 
Within  my  heart  hath  place, 

As  when  on  earth  they  walked  with  me 
And  met  me  face  to  face. 

Their  lives  are  made  forever  mine ) 
What  they  to  me  have  been 

Hath  left  henceforth  its  seal  and  sign 
Engraven  deep  within. 

200 


f 

1 


Mine  are  they  "by  an  ownership 

Nor  time  nor  death  can  free ; 
For  God  hath  given  to  Love  to  keep 

Its  own  eternally. 

—  Frederick  L.  Hosmer. 

LOVED   ONCE. 

I  CLASSED,  appraising  once, 
Earth's  lamentable  sounds ;  the  welladay, 
The  jarring  yea  and  nay, 
The  fall  of  kisses  on  unanswering  clay, 
The  sobbed  farewell,  the  welcome  mournfuller ;  — 

But  all  did  leaven  the  air 
With  a  less  bitter  leaven  of  pure  despair, 

Than  these  words  —  "I  loved  ONCE." 

And  who  saith,  "  I  loved  ONCE  "  ? 
Not  angels,  whose  clear  eyes,  love,  love,  foresee, 

Love  through  eternity, 
And  by  To  Love  do  apprehend  To  Be. 
Not  God,  called  LOVE,  his  noble  crown-name,  —  casting 

A  light  too  broad  for  blasting  ! 
The  great  God, changing  not  from  everlasting, 

Saith  never,  "  I  loved  ONCE." 

Oh,  never  is  "  Loved  ONCE," 
Thy  word,  thou  Victim-Christ,  misprized  friend 

Thy  cross  and  curse  may  rend ; 
But  having  loved  thou  lovest  to  the  end  ! 
It  is  man's  saying  —  man's.     Too  weak  to  move 

One  sphered  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  God-word  Love 

With  his  No  More,  and  Once. 


I 


J 


fearless 


How  say  ye,  "  We  loved  ONCE," 
Blasphemers  ?    Is  your  earth  not  cold  enow, 

Mourners,  without  that  snow? 
Ah,  friends  !  and  would  ye  wrong  each  other  so  ? 
And  could  ye  say  of  some  whose  love  is  known, 

Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own, 
Whose  tears  have  fallen  for  you,  whose  smiles  have  shone 

So  long,  —  "  We  loved  them  ONCE  "  ? 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  ONCE," 
Say  calm  of  me,  sweet  friends,  when  out  of  sight  ? 

When  hearts  of  better  right 
Stand  in  between  me  and  your  happy  light  ? 
And  when,  as  flowers  kept  too  long  in  the  shade, 

Ye  find  my  colors  fade, 
And  all  that  is  not  love  in  me,  decayed  ? 

Such  words  —  "  Ye  loved  me  ONCE  !  ' 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  ONCE," 
Say  cold  of  me  when  further  put  away 

In  earth's  sepulchral  clay  ? 
When  mute  the  lips  which  deprecate  to-day  ? 
Not  so  !  not  then  —  least  then  !     When  life  is  shriven, 

And  Death's  full  joy  is  given,  — 
Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  heaven, 

Say  not,  "  We  loved  them  ONCE." 

Say  never,  ye  loved  ONCE  ! 
God  is  too  near  above,  the  grave,  beneath, 

And  all  our  moments  breathe 
Too  quick  in  mysteries  of  life  and  death, 
For  such  a  word.     The  eternities  avenge 

Affections  light  of  range  — 

202 


<tO> 


There  comes  no  change  to  justify  that  change, 
Whatever  comes  —  loved  ONCE  ! 

And  yet  that  same  word  ONCE 
Is  humanly  acceptive  !     Kings  have  said, 

Shaking  a  discrowned  head, 

"  We  ruled  once,"  —  dotards,  "  We  once  taught  and  led," 
Cripples  once  danced  i'  the  vines  —  and  bards  approved, 

Were  once  by  scornings  moved  : 
But  love  strikes  one  hour  —  LOVE.     Those  never  loved, 

Who  dream  that  they  loved  ONCE. 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


THE  WAITING   GREETING. 

CLEAR  in  memory's  silent  reaches 
Lie  the  pastures  I  have  seen, 
Greener  than  the  sunlit  spaces 

Where  the  May  has  flung  her  green : 
Needs  no  sun  and  needs  no  starlight 

To  illume  these  fields  of  mine, 
For  the  glory  of  dead  faces 
Is  the  sun,  the  stars,  that  shine. 

More  thrm  one  I  count  my  pastures 

As  my  life-path  groweth  long ; 
By  their  quiet  waters  straying 

Oft  I  lay  me,  and  am  strong. 
And  I  call  each  by  its  giver, 

And  the  dear  names  bring  to  them 
Glory  as  from  shining  faces 

In  some  New  Jerusalem. 
203 


fearless  Xanfc. 

Yet,  oh,  well  I  can  remember, 

Once  I  called  my  pastures  Pain, 
And  their  waters  were  a  torrent 

Sweeping  through  my  life  amain  ! 
Now  I  call  them  Peace  and  Stillness, 

Brightness  of  all  Happy  Thought, 
Where  I  linger  for  a  blessing 

From  my  faces  that  are  nought. 

Nought  ?     I  fear  not.     If  the  Power 

Maketh  thus  his  pastures  green, 
Maketh  thus  his  quiet  waters, 

Out  of  waste  his  heavens  serene, 
I  can  trust  the  mighty  Shepherd 

Loseth  none  he  ever  led ; 
Somewhere  yet  a  greeting  waits  me 

On  the  faces  of  my  dead  ! 

—  William  C.  Gannett. 

NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE. 

SAY,  why  should  friendship  grieve  for  those 
Who  safe  arrive  on  Canaan's  shore  ? 
Released  from  all  their  hurtful  foes, 
They  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

How  many  painful  days  on  earth 

Their  fainting  spirits  numbered  o'er  ! 

Now  they  enjoy  a  heavenly  birth  ; 
They  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

Dear  is  the  spot  where  Christians  sleep, 
And  sweet  the  strain  which  angels  pour; 

Oh,  why  should  we  in  anguish  weep  ? 
They  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 
204 


iReumons  fn  Ibeavetu 


Secure  from  every  mortal  care, 
By  sin  and  sorrow  vexed  no  more, 

Eternal  happiness  they  share 

Who  are  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

To  Zion's  peaceful  courts  above 
In  faith  triumphant  may  we  soar, 

Embracing  in  the  arms  of  love 
The  friends  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 

On  Jordan's  bank,  whene'er  we  come, 
And  hear  the  swelling  waters  roar, 

Father,  convey  us  safely  home 

To  friends  not  lost,  but  gone  before. 


—  Anon. 


LIFTED    OVER. 

As  tender  mothers  guiding  baby  steps, 
When  places  come  at  which  the  tiny  feet 
Would  trip,  lift  up  the  little  ones  in  arms 
Of  love,  and  set  them  down  beyond  the  harm, 
So  did  our  Father  watch  the  precious  boy, 
Led  o'er  the  stones  by  me,  who  stumbled  oft 
Myself,  but  strove  to  help  my  darling  on : 
He  saw  the  sweet  limbs  faltering,  and  saw 
Rough  ways  before  us,  where  my  arms  would  fail ; 
So  reached  from  heaven,  and  lifting  the  dear  child, 
Who  smiled  in  leaving  me,  he  put  him  down 
Beyond  all  hurt,  beyond  my  sight,  and  bade 
Him  wait  for  me  !     Shall  I  not  then  be  glad, 
And,  thanking  God,  press  on  to  overtake  ? 

—  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 


L 


fearless 


A  TREASURE   IN   HEAVEN. 

THE  happy  winds  are  all  astir, 
And  softly  falls  the  snow, 
As  when  my  arms  were  holding  her 

In  the  winters  long  ago. 
So  long  ago  !  —  and  yet  so  late 

I  seem  to  feel  her  feet 
Within  my  palms  the  while  I  wait 
Her  singing  low  and  sweet. 

Whither  she  strays  I  may  not  know ; 

What  flowers  her  fingers  find 
To  fasten  in  her  raiment's  flow 

Or  shake  out  on  the  wind, 
I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  feel, 

Tho'  fashioned  so  divine 
That  all  the  angels  round  her  kneel, 

She  loves  me  and  is  mine. 

She  hath  not  found,  in  all  the  land 

Her  presence  lightens  so, 
Forgetfulness  of  the  poor  hand 

She  clung  to  long  ago ; 
And  often  when  the  day  is  done, 

Ere  sleep  my  senses  hold, 
I  feel  her  kisses  one  by  one, 

Just  as  I  did  of  old. 

Something  divides  us  !    It  may  be 

A  sky  of  duller  gray,  — 
A  little  heavier  cross  for  me 

To  bear  o'er  bleaker  way,  — 

206 


•Reunions  in  fbeaven. 


A  dearer  duty  for  love's  sake, 

Or  yet  a  rosier  dawn  ; 
Whate'er  it  may  be,  when  I  wake 

Some  morning,  't  will  be  gone. 

So,  happily  my  pulses  stir 

What  time  I  watch  the  snow, 
As  when  my  arms  were  holding  her 

In  the  winters  long  ago. 
So  long  ago  !  —  and  yet  so  late 

I  seem  to  feel  her  feet 
Within  my  palms  the  while  I  wait, 

Her  singing  low  and  sweet. 


—  Anon. 


MUCH  THE  BEST. 

MOTHER,  I  see  you  with  your  nursery  light, 
Leading  your  babies,  all  in  white, 
To  their  sweet  rest  \ 

Christ,  the  Good  Shepherd,  carries  mine  to-night, 
And  that  is  best. 

I  cannot  help  tears,  when  I  see  them  twine 
Their  fingers  in  yours,  and  their  bright  curls  shine 

On  your  warm  breast ; 
But  the  Saviour's  is  purer  than  yours  or  mine ; 

He  can  love  best ! 

You  tremble  each  hour  because  your  arms 
Are  weak ;  your  heart  is  wrung  with  alarms, 

And  sore  opprest ; 
My  darlings  are  safe,  out  of  reach  of  harms, 

And  that  is  best. 


207 


<i-0> 


fearless  3Lant>. 


You  know  over  yours  may  hang  even  now 
Pain  and  disease,  whose  fulfilling  slow 

Naught  can  arrest ; 
Mine  in  God's  gardens  run  to  and  fro, 

And  that  is  best. 

You  know  that  of  yours,  your  feeblest  one 
And  dearest  may  live  long  years  alone, 

Unloved,  unblest  • 
Mine  are  cherished  of  saints  around  God's  throne, 

And  that  is  best. 

You  must  dread  for  yours  the  crime  that  sears, 
Dark  guilt  unwashed  by  repentant  tears, 

And  unconfessed ; 
Mine  entered  spotless  on  eternal  years, 

Oh,  how  much  the  best ! 

But  grief  is  selfish  ;  I  cannot  see 
Always  why  I  should  so  stricken  be, 

More  than  the  rest ; 
But  I  know  that,  as  well  as  for  them,  for  me 

God  did  the  best ! 

—  Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 

THE   LONESOME   ROAD. 

A  WHEN  the  crickets  chirp  in  the  evening, 

*  *       And  the  stars  flash  out  in  the  sky, 
I  sit  in  my  lonely  doorway 

And  watch  the  children  go  by. 
I  look  at  their  fresh  young  faces, 
And  hark  to  each  merry  word, 
For  to  me,  a  child's  own  language 
Is  the  sweetest  e'er  was  heard. 
208 


I  think  that  the  Angels  have  found  her 

And,  loving  her  better  than  we, 
Have  begged  the  Good  Father  to  keep  her 

Right  on,  through  Eternity.     Page  2og 
(From  Painting  by  K.  Ivaurent) 


IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


•  •  '  * 


"Keunfons  (n  Deaven, 


And  so,  I  sit  in  my  doorway 

In  the  hour  that  I  love  the  best, 
And  think,  as  I  see  them  passing, 

My  child  will  come  with  the  rest : 
Think,  when  I  hear  the  clicking 

Of  the  little  garden  gate, 
My  darling's  hand  is  upon  it  — 

Oh,  why  has  she  come  so  late  ? 

But  the  days  have  been  slowly  weaving 

Their  warp  of  toil  in  my  life ; 
The  weeks  have  rolled  on  me  their  burden 

Of  waiting  and  patience  and  strife  ; 
The  flowers  that  came  with  the  summer 

Have  finished  their  errand  so  sweet, 
And  autumn  is  drooping  her  harvests 

Mellow  and  ripe  at  my  feet. 

And  yet  my  little  girl  comes  not, 

And  I  think  she  has  missed  her  way, 
And  strayed  from  this  cold,  dark  country 

To  one  of  perpetual  day. 
I  think  that  the  angels  have  found  her, 

And,  loving  her  better  than  we, 
Have  begged  the  Good  Father  to  keep  her 

Right  on,  through  eternity. 

Perhaps.    But  I  long  to  enfold  her, 

To  tangle  my  hand  in  her  hair, 
To  feast  my  starved  mouth  on  her  kisses, 

To  hear  her  light  foot  on  the  stair. 
I  am  but  a  poor,  selfish  mother, 

And  mother-hearts  starve,  though  they  know 
209 


fearless  XanD. 


Their  children  are  drinking  the  nectar 
From  lilies  in  heaven  that  blow. 

Some  day  I  am  sure  I  shall  find  her,  — 

But  the  road  is  so  lonesome  between, 
My  spirit  grows  sick  and  impatient 

For  a  glimpse  of  the  pastures  so  green ; 
Till  then  I  shall  sit  in  the  doorway, 

In  the  hour  that  my  heart  loves  best, 
And  think,  when  the  children  pass  homeward, 

My  child  will  come  with  the  rest. 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 

THE   REAPER  AND   THE   FLOWERS. 

'"THERE  is  a  reaper  whose  name  is  Death, 
1       And,  with  his  sickle  keen. 
He  reaps  the  bearded  grain  at  a  breath, 
And  the  flowers  that  grow  between. 

"  Shall  I  have  nought  that  is  fair,"  saith  he ; 

"  Have  nought  but  the  bearded  grain  ? 
Though  the  breath  of  these  flowers  is  sweet  to  me, 

I  will  give  them  all  back  again." 

He  gazed  at  the  flowers  with  tearful  eyes, 

He  kissed  their  drooping  leaves ; 
It  was  for  the  Lord  of  Paradise 

He  bound  them  in  his  sheaves. 

"  My  Lord  has  need  of  these  flow'rets  gay," 

The  reaper  said,  and  smiled ; 
"  Dear  tokens  of  the  earth  are  they, 

Where  he  was  once  a  child. 

210 


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JO 


•Reunions  in  Deavem 

"  They  shall  all  bloom  in  fields  of  light, 

Transplanted  by  my  care, 
And  saints  upon  their  garments  white 
These  sacred  blossoms  wear." 

And  the  mother  gave  in  tears  and  pain, 

The  flowers  she  most  did  love ; 
She  knew  she  should  find  them  all  again 

In  the  fields  of  light  above. 

Oh,  not  in  cruelty,  not  in  wrath, 

The  reaper  came  that  day : 
'T  was  an  angel  visited  the  green  earth, 

And  took  the  flowers  away. 

—  H.  W.Longfellow. 


HEARTS  UNITED. 

"That  they  may  be  one,  even  as  we  are  one." 

THIS  world  is  bright  and  fair,  we  know : 
The  skies  are  arched  in  glory ; 
The  stars  shine  on,  the  sweet  flowers  blow, 
And  tell  their  blessed  story. 

But  softer  than  the  summer's  breath, 

And  fairer  than  its  roses, 
Will  be  the  clime  afar,  when  Death 

The  pearly  gate  uncloses,  — 

The  land  where  broken  ties  shall  twine, 

And  fond  hearts  will  not  sever ; 
Where  love's  pure  light  shall  brighter  shine, 

Forever  and  forever. 

—  Albert  Laighton* 


MID  the  pastures  green  of  the  blessed  isle, 
Where  never  is  heat  or  cold, 
Where  the  light  of  life  is  the  Shepherd's  smile, 

Are  the  lambs  of  the  Upper  Fold. 
Where  the  lilies  blossom  in  fadeless  spring, 

And  never  a  heart  grows  old, 
Where  the  glad  new  song  is  the  song  they  sing, 
Are  the  lambs  of  the  Upper  Fold. 


OF  THE  UPPER 


There  are  tiny  mounds  where  the  hopes  of  earth 

Were  laid  'neath  the  tear-wet  mould, 
But  the  light  that  paled  at  the  stricken  hearth 

Was  joy  to  the  Upper  Fold  : 
Oh,  the  white  stone  beareth  a  new  name  now, 

That  never  on  earth  was  told, 
And  the  tender  Shepherd  doth  guard  with  care 

The  lambs  of  the  Upper  Fold. 


—  Anon. 


THE   CIRCLE   COMPLETE. 


OURS  is  the  grief,  who  still  are  left  in  this  far  wilderness 
Which  will  at   times,  now  they  are   gone,  seem 

blank  and  comfortless. 
For  moments  spent  with  loving  hearts  are  breezes  from 

the  hills, 
And  the  balm  of  Christian  brotherhood  like  Eden's  dew 

distils : 
And  we  whose  footsteps  and  whose  hearts  so  often  fail 

and  faint, 
Seem  ill  to  spare  the  cheering  voice  of  one   departed 

saint. 


212 


IReunions  fn  tbeaveru 


But  oh,  we  sorrow  not  like  those  whom  no  bright  hopes 

sustain, 
For  them  who  sleep  in  Jesus,  God  will  with  him  bring 

again. 

Love  craves  the  presence  and  the  sight  of  all  its  well- 
beloved, 
And  therefore  weep  we  in  the  homes  whence  they  are  far 

removed ; 
Love  craves  the  presence  and  the  sight  of  each  beloved 

one, 
And  therefore  Jesus  spake  the  word  which  caught  them 

to  his  throne : 
"  Father,  I  will  that  all  my  own,  which  thou  hast  granted 

me, 
Be  with  me  where  I  am  to  share  my  glory's  bliss  with 

thee." 

Thus  heaven  is  gathering,  one  by  one,  in  its  capacious 

breast, 

All  that  is  pure  and  permanent,  and  beautiful  and  blest ; 
The  family  is  scatter'd  yet,  though  of  one   home   and 

heart, 

Part  militant  in  earthly  gloom,  in  heavenly  glory  part. 
But   who   can   speak   the   rapture,   when   the   circle    is 

complete, 
And  all  the  children  sunder'd  now  around  one  Father 

meet? 
One  fold,  one  Shepherd,  one   employ,  one   everlasting 

home  : 
"  Lo  !  I  come  quickly."     "  Even  so,  Amen  :  Lord  Jesus, 

come." 

—  Edward  Hemy  Bickersteth, 

213 


TTbe  fearless 


OH,   GIVE  THEM  AGAIN  TO   ME. 

"  Bather,  I  will  that  they  also,  whom  thou  hast  given  me,  may  be  with 
me  where  I  am." 

I  AM  pressing  on  to  the  slippery  shore 
With  my  sore  and  weary  feet, 
But  a  little  while  and  I  hope  to  stand 

At  the  edge  of  the  golden  street. 
But  I  pray  this  prayer  from  amid  the  deep  — 

O  Saviour  of  sinners,  bring 
Those  whom  I  love  to  abide  with  me 
In  the  presence  of  the  King. 

There  are  warm  young  hearts  in  the  household  band ; 

There  are  brightly  beaming  eyes ; 
There  are  voices  sweet  that  I  fain  would  hear 

Mid  the  anthems  of  the  skies : 
Thou  knowest,  O  Jesus,  how  closely  here 

The  bonds  of  love  entwine ; 
I  count  them  o'er  in  the  gloaming  hour, 

And  remember  these  words  of  thine. 

There  are  trembling  fingers  and  silvery  hairs, 

And  eyes  that  are  growing  dim, 
And  voices  less  strong  than  in  days  of  yore, 

Swelling  the  evening  hymn. 
I  would  not  miss  them  at  home  in  heaven ; 

O  Jesus,  who  gave  them  me, 
May  I  have  them  again  in  the  land  of  peace, 

In  the  home  by  the  glassy  sea? 

When  the  golden  crowns  at  my  feet  are  cast, 

May  they  be  among  the  band ; 
When  the  hymn  is  swelling  o'er  heavenly  hills, 

Let  them  with  the  harpers  stand. 
214 


•Reunions  fn  Ibeaven. 

It  cannot  be  that  the  dearest  ones 

Shall  depart  in  the  day  of  strife ; 
It  cannot  be  that  the  loves  of  earth 

Shall  die  in  the  day  of  life. 

I  would  that  my  dear  ones  might  all  be  brought 

To  the  feet  of  the  Crucified  ; 
Might  be  carried  to  him  when  borne  away 

By  the  coldly  rolling  tide. 
But  man  is  weak,  although  love  be  strong, 

And  I  can  but  look  to  thee, 
And  pray  as  thou  prayedst  in  thine  agony, 

Oh,  give  them  again  to  me  ! 

—  Marianne  Farningham. 


UNITED   BY   DEATH. 

"  TTiLL  Death  us  part," 

So  speaks  the  heart, 
When  each  to  each  repeats  the  words  of  doom  ; 

Through  blessing  and  through  curse, 

For  better  and  for  worse, 
We  will  be  one,  till  that  dread  hour  shall  come. 

Life  with  its  myriad  grasp, 

Our  yearning  souls  shall  clasp, 
By  ceaseless  love  and  still  expectant  wonder : 

In  bonds  that  shall  endure, 

Indissolubly  sure, 
Till  God  in  death  shall  part  our  path  asunder. 

"  Till  Death  us  join:' 
O  voice  yet  more  divine  ! 
That  to  the  broken  heart  breathes  hope  sublime. 

215 


fearless 


Through  lonely  hours 
And  shattered  powers 
We  still  are  one,  despite  of  change  and  time. 

Death,  with  his  healing  hand, 

Shall  once  more  knit  the  band 
Which  needs  but  that  one  link  which  none  may  sever  ; 

Till,  through  the  only  Good, 

Heard,  felt,  and  understood, 
Our  life  in  God  shall  make  us  one  forever. 

—  Anon. 


SOON   WITH  THEE. 

OUR  beloved  have  departed, 
While  we  tarry,  broken-hearted, 
In  the  dreary,  empty  house ; 
They  have  ended  life's  brief  story ; 
They  have  reached  the  home  of  glory, 
Over  death  victorious  ! 

Hush  that  sobbing ;  weep  more  lightly ; 
On  we  travel,  daily,  nightly, 

To  the  rest  that  they  have  found  ; 
Are  we  not  upon  the  river, 
Sailing  fast  to  meet  forever 

On  more  holy,  happy  ground  ? 

Whilst  with  bitter  tears  we  're  mourning, 
Thought  to  buried  loves  returning, 

Time  is  hasting  us  along, 
Downward  to  the  grave's  dark  dwelling, 
Upward  to  the  fountain  welling 

With  eternal  life  and  song  ! 

216 


See  ye  not  the  breezes  hying, 
Clouds  along  in  hurry  flying? 

But  we  haste  more  swiftly  on, 
Ever  changing  our  position, 
Ever  tossed  in  strange  transition, 

Here  to-day,  to-morrow  gone. 

Every  hour  that  passes  o'er  us 
Speaks  of  comfort  yet  before  us, 

Of  our  journey's  rapid  rate ; 
And,  like  passing  vesper  bells, 
The  clock  of  time  its  chiming  tells 

At  eternity's  broad  gate. 

On  we  haste  to  home  invited, 
There  with  friends  to  be  united 

In  a  surer  bond  than  here, 
Meeting  soon,  and  met  forever ; 
Glorious  hope  !  forsake  us  never, 

For  thy  glimmering  light  is  dear. 

Ah,  the  way  is  shining  clearer, 
As  we  journey,  ever  nearer 

To  the  everlasting  home ; 
Friends  who  there  await  our  landing, 
Comrades  round  the  throne  now  standing, 

We  salute  you,  and  we  come  ! 

—  From  the  German  of  J.  Lange. 

THE   FAMILY   IN   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH. 
"T1  is  but  one  family,  —  the  sound  is  balm, 
A       A  seraph-whisper  to  the  wounded  heart, 
It  lulls  the  storm  of  sorrow  to  a  calm, 

And  draws  the  venom  from  the  avenger's  dart. 


Gbe  fearless  Hand. 

T  is  but  one  family,  —  the  accents  come 

Like  light  from  heaven  to  break  the  night  of  woe, 

The  banner-cry,  to  call  the  spirit  home, 
The  shout  of  victory  o'er  a  fallen  foe. 

Death  cannot  separate  —  is  memory  dead  ? 

Has  thought,  too,  vanished,  and  has  love  grown  chill  ? 
Has  every  relic  and  memento  fled, 

And  are  the  living  only  with  us  still  ? 

No  !  in  our  hearts  the  lost  we  mourn  remain, 

Objects  of  love  and  ever- fresh  delight ; 
And  fancy  leads  them  in  her  fairy  train, 

In  half-seen  transports  past  the  mourner's  sight. 

Yes  !  in  ten  thousand  ways,  or  far  or  near, 
The  called  by  love,  by  meditation  brought, 

In  heavenly  visions  yet  they  haunt  us  here, 
The  sad  companions  of  our  sweetest  thought. 

Death  never  separates ;  the  golden  wires 
That  ever  trembled  to  their  names  before, 

Will  vibrate  still,  though  every  form  expires, 
And  those  we  love,  we  look  upon  no  more. 

No  more  indeed  in  sorrow  and  in  pain, 

But  even  memory's  need  erelong  will  cease, 

For  we  shall  join  the  lost  of  love  again, 
In  endless  bands,  and  in  eternal  peace. 

— James  Edmeston. 

THE   OLD   VOICES. 
T  FEEL  the  unutterable  longing, 

The  hunger  of  the  heart  is  mine  ; 
I  reach  and  grasp  for  hands  in  darkness, 
My  ear  grows  sharp  for  voice  or  sign. 
218 


IReunfons  in  "fceaven. 

O  friend,  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning, 
This  outstretch  of  our  hearts,  we  need ; 

God  will  not  mock  the  hope  he  giveth, 
No  love  he  prompts  shall  vainly  plead. 

Then  let  us  stretch  our  hands  in  darkness, 
And  call  our  loved  ones  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Some  day  their  arms  shall  close  about  us, 
And  the  old  voices  speak  once  more. 

— John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


; 


A  YEAR   IN    HEAVEN. 

ONE  year  among  the  angels,  beloved,  thou  hast  been ; 
One  year  has  heaven's  white  portal  shut  back  the 
sound  of  sin : 
And  yet  no  voice,  no  whisper,  comes  floating  down  from 

thee, 
To  tell  us  what  glad  wonder  a  year  of  heaven  may  be. 

Our  hearts  before  it  listen,  —  the  beautiful  closed  gate  : 
The  silence  yearns  around  us ;  we  listen  and  we  wait. 
It  is  thy  heavenly  birthday,  on  earth  thy  lilies  bloom ; 
In  thine  immortal  garland  canst  find  for  these  no  room  ? 

Thou  lovedst  all  things  lovely  when  walking  with  us  here  : 
Now,  from  the  heights  of  heaven,  seems  earth  no  longer 

dear? 

We  cannot  paint  thee  moving  in  white-robed  state  afar, 
Nor  dream  our  flower  of  comfort  a  cool  and  distant  star. 

Heaven  is  but  life  made  richer  :  therein  can  be  no  loss ; 
To  meet  our  love  and  longing  thou  hast  no  gulf  to  cross  ; 
No  adamant  between  us  uprears  its  rocky  screen ; 
A  veil  before  us  only ;  —  thou  in  the  light  serene. 

219 


fearless  XanD. 


That  veil  'twixt  earth  and  heaven  a  breath  might  waft 

aside ; 

We  breathe  one  air,  beloved,  we  follow  one  dear  Guide  : 
Passed  in  to  open  vision,  out  of  our  mists  and  rain, 
Thou   seest   how  sorrow  blossoms;    how  peace   is  won 

from  pain. 

And  half  we  feel  thee  leaning  from  thy  deep  calm  of  bliss, 

To  say  of  earth,  "  Beloved,  how  beautiful  it  is  ! 

The  lilies  in  this  splendor,  —  the   green   leaves  in  this 

dew;  — 
Oh,  earth  is  also  heaven,  with  God's  light  clothed  anew  ! " 

So,  when  the  sky  seems  bluer,  and  when  the  blossoms 

wear 

Some  tender,  mystic  shading  we  never  knew  was  there, 
We  '11  say,  "  We  see  things  earthly  by  light  of  sainted 

eyes; 
She  bends  where  we  are  gazing,  to-day,  from  Paradise." 

Because  we  know  thee  near  us,  and  nearer  still  to  Him, 

Who  fills  thy  cup  of  being  with  glory  to  the  brim, 

We  will  not  stain  with  grieving  our  fair,  though  fainter 

light, 
But  cling  to  thee  in  spirit  as  if  thou  wert  in  sight. 

And  as  in  waves  of  beauty  the  swift  years  come  and  go, 
Upon  celestial  currents  our  deeper  life  shall  flow, 
Hearing,  from  that  sweet  country  where  blighting  never 

came, 
Love  chime  the  hours  immortal,  in  earth  and  heaven  the 

same. 

—  Lucy  Larcom. 

220 


TO 


IReunions  in  f>eavem 


INVITATIONS  FROM  HEAVEN. 

COME  to  the  land  of  peace  ! 
Come  where  the  tempest  hath  no  longer  sway, 
The  shadow  passes  from  the  soul  away, 
The  sounds  of  weeping  cease  ! 

Fear  hath  no  dwelling  there  ! 
Come  to  the  mingling  of  repose  and  love, 
Breathed  by  the  silent  spirit  of  the  dove 

Through  the  celestial  air  ! 

Come  to  the  bright  and  blest, 
And  crowned  forever  —  midst  the  shining  band, 
Gathered  to  heaven's  own  wreath  from  every  land, 

Thy  spirit  shall  find  rest  ! 

Thou  hast  been  long  alone  ; 
Come  to  thy  mother  !  on  the  Sabbath  shore, 
The  heart  that  rocked  thy  childhood  back  once  more 

Shall  take  its  wearied  one. 

In  silence  wert  thou  left, 
Come  to  thy  sisters  !  —  joyously  again 
All  the  home-voices,  blest  in  one  sweet  strain, 

Shall  greet  their  long  bereft. 

Over  thine  orphan  head 

The  storm  hath  swept,  as  o'er  a  willow's  bough  ; 
Come  to  thy  father  !  —  it  is  finished  now  ; 

Thy  tears  have  all  been  shed. 

In  thy  divine  abode 

Change  finds  no  pathway,  memory  no  dark  trace  ; 
And,  O  bright  victory  !  —  death  by  love  no  place  ! 

Come,  spirit,  to  thy  God  ! 

—  Anon. 

221 


Sbe  fearless  fcanfc. 


F 


THAT   HAPPIER   SPHERE. 
'RIEND,  after  friend,  departs ; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend? 
There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end  : 
Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 
Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Beyond  the  flight  of  time, 

Beyond  this  vale  of  death, 
There  surely  is  some  blessed  clime, 

Where  life  is  not  a  breath, 
Nor  life's  affections  transient  fire, 
Whose  sparks  fly  upwards  to  expire. 

There  is  a  world  above, 

Where  parting  is  unknown ; 
A  whole  eternity  of  love, 

Formed  for  the  good  alone : 
And  faith  beholds  the  dying  here 
Translated  to  that  happier  sphere. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines 
Till  we  are  passed  away, 
As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day ; 
Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night ; 
They  hide  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 
1824.  —  James  Montgomery. 

"GOOD-BY  TILL  MORNING." 
OOD-BY,  till  morning  come  again," 

We  part,  but  not  with  aught  of  pain, 
The  night  is  short,  and  hope  is  sweet, 

222 


•Reunions  in  fbeaven. 

It  fills  our  hearts,  and  wings  our  feet ; 
And  so  we  sing  the  glad  refrain, 
"  Good-by,  till  morning  come  again." 

"  Good-by,  till  morning  come  again," 
The  shade  of  death  brings  thought  of  pain, 
But  could  we  know  how  short  the  night 
That  falls,  and  hides  them  from  our  sight, 
Our  hearts  would  sing  the  glad  refrain, 
"  Good-by,  till  morning  come  again." 

— Anon. 


i 


223 


cUX 


JO 


VIII. 

•Rest  in  Ibeaven, 


Blessed  fold  !  no  foe  can  enter, 

And  no  friend  departeth  thence; 
Jesus  is  their  sun  and  center. 

And  their  shield,  Omnipotence. 
Blessed ;  for  the  Lamb  shall  feed  them, 

All  their  tears  shall  wipe  away, 
To  the  living  fountains  lead  them, 

Till  fruitioris  perfect  day. 

—  Josiah  Conder 


And  I  heard  a  voice  from  heaven  saying,  Write,  Blessed  are  the 
dead  which  die  in  the  Lord  from  henceforth :  yea,  saith  the  Spirit, 
that  they  may  rest  from  their  labors;  for  their  works  follow  with 
them.  —  Rev.  14  :  TJ. 

There  remaineth  therefore  a  sabbath  rest  for  the  people  of  God. 
For  he  that  is  entered  into  his  rest  hath  himself  also  rested  from  his 
works,  as  God  did  from  his. — Heb.  4:9, 10. 


226 


TO 


IRest  in  Ibeaven* 


IN   HEAVEN   ALONE   IS  REST. 

IV TOT  in  this  weary  world  of  ours 
*  ^     Can  perfect  rest  be  found ; 
Thorns  mingle  with  its  fairest  flowers, 

Even  on  cultured  ground. 
A  brook  to  drink  of  by  the  way, 

A  rock  its  shade  to  cast, 
May  cheer  our  path  from  day  to  day, 

But  such  not  long  can  last ; 
Earth's  pilgrim  still  his  loins  must  gird 

To  seek  a  lot  more  blest ; 
And  this  must  be  his  onward  word,  — 

"  In  heaven  alone  is  rest." 

This  cannot  be  our  resting-place, 

Though  now  and  then  a  gleam 
Of  lovely  nature,  heavenly  grace, 

May  on  thee  briefly  beam ; 
Grief's  pelting  shower,  care's  darkening  shroud, 

Still  falls,  or  hovers  near ; 
And  sin's  pollutions  often  cloud 

The  light  of  life  while  here  ; 
Nor  till  it  «  shuffle  off  the  coil " 

In  which  it  lies  depressed, 
Can  the  pure  spirit  cease  from  toil : 
i  heaven  alone  is  re 


tlearless 


Rest  to  the  weary,  anxious  soul, 

That  on  life's  toilsome  road 
Bears  onward  to  the  destined  goal 

Its  heavy,  galling  load  ; 
Rest  unto  eyes  that  often  weep 

Beneath  the  day's  broad  light, 
Or  oftener  painful  vigils  keep 

Through  the  dark  hours  of  night ; 
But  let  us  bear  with  pain  and  care, 

As  ills  to  be  redressed, 
Relying  on  the  promise  fair,  — 

"  In  heaven  there  will  be  rest." 


—  Anon. 


REST   FOR  THE   TOILING   HAND. 

REST  for  the  toiling  hand, 
Rest  for  the  anxious  brow, 
Rest  for  the  weary,  wayworn  feet, 
Rest  from  all  labor  now. 

Rest  for  the  fevered  brain, 

Rest  for  the  throbbing  eye  : 
Through  these  parched  lips  of  thine,  no  more 

Shall  pass  the  moan  or  sigh. 

Soon  shall  the  trump  of  God 

Give  out  the  welcome  sound 
That  shakes  thy  silent  chamber-walls, 

And  breaks  the  turf-sealed  ground. 

Ye  dwellers  in  the  dust, 

Awake  !  come  forth  and  sing  ! 
Sharp  has  your  frost  of  winter  been, 

But  bright  shall  be  your  spring. 
228 


•fleet  fn  Deaven. 

'T  was  sown  in  weakness  here  : 

'T  will  then  be  raised  in  power  : 
That  which  was  sown  an  earthly  seed 

Shall  rise  a  heavenly  flower. 

—  Horatius  Bonar. 

THE   DEEPER   REST. 


WHEN  round  the  earth  the  Father's  hands 
Have  gently  drawn  the  dark ; 
Sent  off  the  sun  to  fresher  lands, 

And  curtained  in  the  lark ; 
'T  is  sweet,  all  tired  with  glowing  day, 

To  fade  with  fading  light ; 
To  lie  once  more,  the  old  weary  way, 
Upfolded  in  the  night. 

If  mothers  o'er  our  slumbers  bend, 

And  unripe  kisses  reap, 
In  soothing  dreams  with  sleep  they  blend, 

Till  even  in  dreams  we  sleep. 
And  if  we  wake  while  night  is  dumb, 

'T  is  sweet  to  turn  and  say, 
"  It  is  an  hour  ere  dawning  come, 

And  I  will  sleep  till  day." 

n. 
There  is  a  dearer,  warmer  bed, 

Where  one  all  day  may  lie, 
Earth's  bosom  pillowing  the  head, 
And  let  the  world  go  by. 
229 


Searlcss  XanD. 

There  come  no  watching  mother's  eyes ; 

The  stars  instead  look  down ; 
Upon  it  breaks,  and  silent  dies 

The  murmur  of  the  town. 

The  great  world,  shouting,  forward  fares ) 

This  chamber,  hid  from  none, 
Hides  safe  from  all,  for  no  one  cares 

For  him  whose  work  is  done. 
Cheer  thee,  my  friend  ;  bethink  thee  how 

A  certain  unknown  place, 
Or  here  or  there,  is  waiting  now, 

To  rest  thee  from  thy  race. 


III. 
Nay,  nay,  not  there  the  rest  from  harms, 

The  slow  composed  breath  ! 
Not  there  the  folding  of  the  arms  ! 

Not  there  the  sleep  of  death  ! 
It  needs  no  curtained  bed  to  hide 

The  world  with  all  its  wars ; 
No  grassy  cover  to  divide 

From  sun  and  moon  and  stars. 

There  is  a  rest  that  deeper  grows 

In  midst  of  pain  and  strife ; 
A  mighty,  conscious,  willed  repose, 

The  death  of  deepest  life. 
To  have  and  hold  the  precious  prize 

No  need  of  jealous  bars ; 
But  windows  open  to  the  skies, 

And  skill  to  read  the  stars. 
230 


<U> 


"Rest  in  "fceaven. 


rv. 
Who  dwelleth  in  that  secret  place, 

Where  tumult  enters  not, 
Is  never  cold  with  terror  base, 

Never  with  anger  hot. 
For  if  an  evil  host  should  dare 

His  very  heart  invest, 
God  is  his  deeper  heart,  and  there 

He  enters  into  rest. 

When  mighty  sea-winds  madly  blow, 

And  tear  the  scattered  waves, 
Peaceful  as  summer  woods,  below 

Lie  darkling  ocean  caves  : 
The  wind  of  words  may  toss  my  heart, 

But  what  is  that  to  me  ? 
T  is  but  a  surface  storm  —  Thou  art 

My  deep,  still,  resting  sea. 

—  George  Macdonald. 

THE   HEAVENLY   REST. 

T^HERE  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest, 
To  mourning  wanderers  given ; 
There  is  a  joy  for  souls  distrest, 
A  balm  for  every  wounded  breast, 
T  is  found  above,  in  heaven. 

There  is  a  soft,  a  downy  bed, 

'T  is  fair  as  breath  of  even ; 
A  couch  for  weary  mortals  spread, 
Where  they  may  rest  the  aching  head, 

And  find  repose  —  in  heaven. 
231 


fearless  Xanfc. 

There  is  a  home  for  weary  souls 

By  sin  and  sorrow  driven ; 
When  tossed  on  life's  tempestuous  shoals, 
Where  storms  arise,  and  ocean  rolls, 

And  all  is  drear  but  heaven. 

There,  faith  lifts  up  her  cheerful  eye, 

To  brighter  prospects  given ; 
And  views  the  tempest  passing  by, 
The  evening  shadows  quickly  fly, 

And  all  serene  in  heaven. 

There,  fragrant  flowers,  immortal,  bloom, 

And  joys  supreme  are  given ; 
There,  rays  divine  disperse  the  gloom  : 
Beyond  the  confines  of  the  tomb 

Appears  the  dawn  of  heaven. 

—  William  Bingham  Tapfan. 

IN   COELO   QUIES. 

SHOULD  sorrow  o'er  thy  brow 
Its  darkened  shadow  fling, 
And  hopes  that  cheer  thee  now 

Die  in  their  early  spring ; 
Should  pleasure  at  its  birth 

Fade,  like  the  hues  of  even, 
Turn  thou  away  from  earth ; 
There  's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven. 

If  ever  life  shall  seem 

To  thee  a  toilsome  way, 
And  gladness  cease  to  beam 

Upon  its  clouded  day ; 

232 


TO 


IRest  tn  Ibeavetu 


« 


If,  like  the  weary  dove, 

O'er  shoreless  ocean  driven, 
Raise  thou  thine  eye  above  ; 

There  's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven. 

But  oh,  if  thornless  flowers 

Throughout  thy  pathway  bloom, 
And  gayly  fleet  the  hours, 

Unstained  by  earthly  gloom, 
Still  let  not  every  thought 

To  this  poor  world  be  given, 
Nor  always  be  forgot 

Thy  better  rest  in  heaven. 

When  sickness  pales  thy  cheek 

And  dims  thy  lustrous  eye, 
And  pulses  low  and  weak 

Tell  of  a  time  to  die, 
Sweet  Hope  shall  whisper  then, 

"  Though  thou  from  earth  be  riven, 
There  's  bliss  beyond  thy  ken, 

There  's  rest  for  thee  in  heaven." 

— J.  Huntington  Bright. 

THE   SLEEP. 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.  —  Psalm  127  .-2. 
I. 

OF  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  unto  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this  — 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep"? 

233 


n. 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart,  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp,  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice,  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown,  to  light  the  brows  ?- 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

in. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake, 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

IV. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  "  we  sometimes  say, 

But  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep : 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

v. 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men,  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold,  the  wailers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  "giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

234 


T£> 


IRest  in  Ibeaven. 


VI. 


His  dew  drops  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap. 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

VII. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  while  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep  ; 
But  angels  say  —  and  through  the  word 
I  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard— 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

VIII. 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 

Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 

That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 

Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 

Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose, 

Who  "  giveth  His  beloved  sleep  !  " 

DC. 

And,  friends,  dear  friends,  —  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall  — 
'  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep.'  " 

—  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 

235 


<i>0> 


JO 


fearless  Xanfc. 

THE  TWO   VILLAGES. 
/"~\VER  the  river  on  the  hill 
V^     Lieth  a  village  white  and  still ; 
All  around  it  the  forest  trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze ; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river  under  the  hill 
Another  village  lieth  still ; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river's  shore ; 
And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers, 

Never  a  clock  to  tell  the  hours  ; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut ; 

You  may  not  enter  at  hall  or  hut ; 

All  the  village  lie  asleep ; 

Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap ; 

Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh, 

Silent,  and  idle,  and  low  they  lie. 

In  that  village  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 


•Rest  in  Deaven, 

And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home,  from  this  below ; 
Longs  to  sleep  by  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  this  answer  fall  — 
"  Patience  !  that  village  shall  hold  ye  all ! " 

—  Rose  Terry  Cooke. 


AT   EVENING-TIME. 

'""THE  light  fades  out  of  calme'd  sea, 

Dark  shadows  scar  its  lustrous  breast ; 
Flushed,  like  the  petal  of  a  flower, 
The  white  sail  melts  into  the  west. 


Far  o'er  the  blue  the  weary  winds 

Have  winged  their  flight,  and  swell  no  more 
The  waves'  sad  music  o'er  the  shrill 

Of  ripples  on  the  pebbly  shore. 

Rest  comes  at  last !  o'er  purple  hills 
The  silvery  sheep-bell  tinkles  clear, 

Slowly  the  lowing  kine  descend 

The  homeward  paths,  and  on  the  ear 

Ring  joyous  echoes  from  afar 

As  reapers  lay  their  sickles  by. 
Then  all  sound  dies,  and  land  and  sea 

Sleep  calmly  'neath  a  silent  sky. 

Rest  comes  at  last !  O  weary  heart, 
Fevered  and  fainting,  racked  by  care, 

And  toiling  'neath  thy  earthly  cross 
Too  great  for  mortal  strength  to  bear, 

237 


fearless  £an<x 


Take  courage  —  faint  not,  but  endure  ! 

Soon  shalt  thou  say,  "  The  day  is  past ! 
At  eventide  the  end  shall  come, 

And  bring  the  quiet  rest  at  last. 


—Anon. 


238 


:«SUes  of  Tbeaven. 


The  saints  of  God,  their  wanderings  done> 

No  more  their  weary  course  they  run  ; 

No  more  they  faint,  no  more  they  fall ; 

No  foes  oppress,  no  fears  appall. 

O  happy  saints,  forever  blest 

In  that  dear  home,  how  sweet  your  rest! 

—  William  £>.  Madagen. 


CUSL 


?o 


And  God  himself  shall  be  with  them,  and  be  their  God :  and  he 
shall  wipe  away  every  tear  from  their  eyes;  and  death  shall  be  no 
more;  neither  shall  there  be  mourning,  nor  crying,  nor  pain,  any 
more :  the  first  things  are  passed  away.  —  Rev.  21  :  j>,  4.. 

And  there  shall  be  no  curse  any  more;  and  the  throne  of  God 
and  of  the  Lamb  shall  be  therein :  and  his  servants  shall  do  him 
service;  and  they  shall  see  his  face;  and  his  name  shall  be  on 
their  foreheads.  And  there  shall  be  night  no  more;  and  they  need 
no  light  of  lamp,  neither  light  of  sun;  for  the  Lord  God  shall  give 
them  light :  and  they  shall  reign  for  ever  and  ever.  —  Rev.  22  : 3-5. 


<ux 


70 


BLESSED   ARE   THE   DEAD.1 

(Selig  sind  die  in  dem  Herrn  sterben.) 

OH,  how  blest  are  ye  whose  toils  are  ended  ! 
Who,  through  death,  have  unto  God  ascended  ! 
Ye  have  arisen 
From  the  cares  which  keep  us  still  in  prison. 

We  are  still  as  in  a  dungeon  living, 

Still  oppressed  with  sorrow  and  misgiving ; 

Our  undertakings 

Are  tout  toils,  and  troubles,  and  heartbreakings. 

Ye,  meanwhile,  are  in  your  chambers  sleeping, 
Quiet,  and  set  free  from  all  our  weeping ; 
No  cross  nor  trial 
Hinders  your  enjoyments  with  denial. 

Christ  has  wiped  away  your  tears  forever ; 
Ye  have  that  for  which  we  still  endeavor. 
To  you  are  chanted 
Songs  which  yet  no  mortal  ear  have  haunted. 

Ah  1  who  would  not,  then,  depart  with  gladness, 

To  inherit  heaven  for  earthly  sadness  ? 

Who  here  would  languish 

Longer  in  bewailing  and  in  anguish  ? 

»  Note  7. 

24I 


<U2> 


JO 


Gearless  Xanfc. 


Come,  O  Christ,  and  loose  the  chains  that  bind  us  ! 
Lead  us  forth,  and  cast  this  world  behind  us  ! 
With  thee,  the  Anointed, 
Finds  the  soul  its  joy  and  rest  appointed. 

—  Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

THE   WEDDING   FEAST. 

/">  OURAGE,  O  faithful  heart ; 
^*     Steadfast  forever ! 
In  the  eternal  love 

Faltering  never : 
Courage,  O  downcast  eyes, 

Bitter  tears  shedding ; 
Hark  !  how  the  chimes  ring  out 

Joy  for  the  wedding  ! 

Open  the  golden  doors ; 

Through  the  high  portal 
Let  the  rich  glory  stream 

Sea-like,  immortal ! 
Open  the  golden  doors 

Wide  from  the  center ;  — 
Countless  the  multitude 

Hither  must  enter ! 

Light  up  the  palace  halls, 

From  roof-tree  to  basement j 
Bid  the  warm  festal  glow 

Flood  every  casement : 
Chant  ye  the  bridal  song 

Solemn  and  holy, 
Waking  to  Paradise 

Souls  that  lie  holy ; 

242 


£^O 


3Blte0  of  tbeavem 


But  of  old  battlefields 

No  man  remembers ; 
Out  of  still  village  yards 

And  dank  charnel  chambers, 
From  the  chill  ocean  graves 

Under  far  waters, 
And  the  dear  sepulchers 

Where  sleep  the  martyrs ; 

Dives  and  Lazarus, 

One  with  the  other ; 
Peasant  and  emperor, 

Foeman  and  brother  \ 
Men  with  long  century-lives, 

Braving  death's  shadow, 
And  sweet  baby  blossoms,  —  fresh 

As  flower  in  the  meadow :  — 

Out  of  the  million  haunts 

Where  dead  men  lie  idle, 
Out  of  life's  thousand  ways  :  — 

Call  to  the  bridal : 
Open  the  golden  doors 

Wide  from  the  center  ! 
For  they  that  are  ready 

To  glory  shall  enter. 


W.  E.  Littlewood. 


NO   GRAVES  ARE    THERE. 


are  tnere»" 

No  willow  weeps  above  the  grassy  bed 
Where  sleeps  the  young,  the  fondly  loved,  the  fair, 


The  early  dead  ! 


243 


fearless  XanD, 


No  funeral  knell 

Blends  with  the  breeze  of  spring  its  mournful  tone, 
Bidding  henceforth  the  balmy  breezes  tell 

Of  loved  ones  gone. 

O'er  the  cold  brow 
No  bitter  tears  of  agony  are  shed ; 
None  o'er  the  still,  pale  form,  in  anguish  bow. 

Whence  life  has  fled. 

"  No  graves  are  there," 
Nor  sunny  slope,  green  turf,  or  quiet  grot, 
Those  sad  mementoes  of  departure  bear, 

For  death  is  not. 

That  fearful  foe  ! 

Here,  ever  bearing  from  us  those  we  love, 
Resistless  as  his  power  is  owned  below, 

Has  none  above. 

No  !  in  the  tomb 

Ends  his  dominion ;  —  there  his  power  is  o'er, 
And  they  who  safely  tread  its  path  of  gloom 

Shall  die  no  more  ! 

"  No  graves  are  there  ;  " 
Father,  we  thank  thee  that  there  is  a  clime 
Guarded  alike  from  death,  and  grief,  and  care, 

Untouched  by  Time. 

We  praise  Thy  name 

That  from  the  dust  and  darkness  of  the  tomb 
We  can  look  up  in  faith,  and  humbly  claim 

Our  future  home. 

244 


JO 


:fi3lfss  of  Ibeaven. 


Hasten  the  day 

When,  passing  death's  dark  vale  without  a  fear, 
We,  as  we  reach  that  heavenly  home,  may  say 

No  graves  are  here  ! 

—  R.A.Rhees. 


THE   ONE   GLAD   DAY. 

*"FHERE  is  no  night  in  heaven ; 

*      In  that  blest  world  above 

Work  never  can  bring  weariness, 

For  work  itself  is  love. 
There  is  no  night  in  heaven ; 

Yet  nightly  round  the  bed 
Of  every  Christian  wanderer 

Faith  hears  an  angel  tread. 

There  is  no  grief  in  heaven ; 

For  life  is  one  glad  day, 
And  tears  are  of  those  former  things 

Which  all  have  passed  away. 
There  is  no  grief  in  heaven ; 

Yet  angels  from  on  high 
On  golden  pinions  earthward  glide, 

The  Christian's  tears  to  dry. 

There  is  no  sin  in  heaven ; 

Behold  that  blessed  throng, 
All  holy  in  their  spotless  robe, 

All  holy  in  their  song. 
There  is  no  sin  in  heaven ; 

Here,  who  from  sin  is  free  ? 
Yet  angels  aid  us  in  our  strife 

For  Christ's  true  liberty. 

245 


fearless  %an&. 

There  is  no  death  in  heaven ; 

For  they  who  gain  that  shore 
Have  won  their  immortality, 

And  they  can  die  no  more. 
There  is  no  death  in  heaven ; 

But  when  the  Christian  dies, 
The  angels  'wait  his  parted  soul, 

And  waft  it  to  the  skies. 

—  Frederick  D.  Huntington. 


O   HEAVENLY  JERUSALEM. 

"  Coelestis  O  Jerusalem." 

O  HEAVENLY  Jerusalem, 
Of  everlasting  halls, 
Thrice  blessed  are  the  people 
Thou  storest  in  thy  walls. 

Thou  art  the  golden  mansion, 
Where  saints  forever  sing ; 

The  seat  of  God's  own  chosen, 
The  palace  of  the  King. 

There  God  forever  sitteth, 
Himself  of  all  the  crown ; 

The  Lamb,  the  Light  that  shineth, 
And  never  goeth  down. 

Nought  to  this  seat  approacheth, 
Their  sweet  peace  to  molest ; 

They  sing  their  God  forever, 
Nor  day  nor  night  they  rest. 


of  f>eavetu 


1839. 


Sure  Hope  doth  thither  lead  us ; 

Our  longings  hither  tend ; 
May  short-lived  toil  ne'er  daunt  us 

For  joys  that  cannot  end. 

To  Christ,  the  Sun  that  lightens 

His  Church  above,  below ; 
To  Father  and  to  Spirit, 

All  things  created  bow. 

—  Isaac  Williams. 


NO   NIGHT   SHALL   BE   IN   HEAVEN. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven,  —  no  gathering  gloom 
Shall  o'er  that  glorious  landscape  ever  come ; 
No  tears  shall  fall  in  sadness  o'er  those  flowers 
That  breathe  their  fragrance  through  celestial  bowers. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven,  —  no  dreadful  hour 
Of  mental  darkness  or  the  tempter's  power ; 
Across  those  skies  no  envious  cloud  shall  roll, 
To  dim  the  sunlight  of  the  enraptured  soul. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven.     Forbid  to  sleep, 
These  eyes  no  more  their  mournful  vigils  keep ; 
Their  fountains  dried,  their  tears  all  wiped  away, 
They  gaze  undazzled  on  eternal  day. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven,  no  sorrow's  reign, 
No  secret  anguish,  no  corporeal  pain, 
No  shivering  limbs,  no  burning  fever  there, 
No  soul's  eclipse,  no  winter  of  despair. 

247 


fearless  XanD. 


No  night  shall  be  in  heaven,  but  endless  noon  ; 
No  fast-declining  sun,  nor  waning  moon  ; 
But  there  the  Lamb  shall  yield  perpetual  light, 
Mid  pastures  green  and  waters  ever  bright. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven,  no  darkened  room, 
No  bed  of  death,  nor  silence  of  the  tomb  ; 
But  breezes  ever  fresh  with  love  and  truth 
Shall  brace  the  frame  with  an  immortal  youth. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven.     But  night  is  here  — 
The  night  of  sorrow  and  the  night  of  fear  ; 
I  mourn  the  ills  that  now  my  steps  attend, 
And  shrink  from  others  that  may  yet  impend. 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven.     Oh,  had  I  faith 
To  rest  in  what  the  faithful  Witness  saith, 
That  faith  should  make  these  hideous  phantoms  flee, 
And  leave  no  night  henceforth  on  earth  to  me  ! 

—  Thomas  Raffles. 


NO   TROUBLES  THERE. 

o  sickness  there  — 

No  weary  wasting  of  the  frame  away, 
No  fearful  shrinking  from  the  midnight  air, 
No  dread  of  summer's  bright  and  fervid  ray  ! 


N' 


No  hidden  grief, 

No  wild  and  cheerless  vision  of  despair ; 
No  vain  petition  for  a  swift  relief, 
No  tearful  eye,  no  broken  heart  are  there  ! 

248 


<iO 


1 


Care  has  no  home 

Within  that  realm  of  ceaseless  praise  and  song 
Its  surging  billows  toss  and  melt  in  foam, 
Far  from  the  mansions  of  the  spirit-  throng. 

The  storm's  black  wing 
Is  never  spread  athwart  celestial  skies  ; 
Its  wailings  blend  not  with  the  voice  of  Spring, 
As  some  too  tender  flow'ret  fades  and  dies. 

No  night  distills 

Its  chilling  dews  upon  the  tender  frame  ; 
No  morn  is  needed  there  !  the  light  which  fills 
The  land  of  glory,  from  its  Maker  came. 

No  parted  friends 

O'er  mournful  recollections  have  to  weep  — 
No  bed  of  death  —  enduring  love  attends, 
To  watch  the  coming  of  a  pulseless  sleep  ! 

No  withered  flower, 

Or  blasted  bud,  celestial  gardens  know  ! 
No  scorching  blast  or  fierce  descending  shower 
Scatters  destruction  like  a  ruthless  foe. 

No  battle-  word 

Startles  the  sacred  hosts  with  fear  and  dread  ; 
The  song  of  Peace,  Creation's  morning  heard, 
Is  sung  wherever  angel  footsteps  tread  ! 


Let  us  depart, 

If  home  like  this  await  the  weary  soul  ! 
Look  up,  thou  stricken  one  !     Thy  wounded  heart 
Shall  bleed  no  more  at  sorrow's  stern  control. 


With  Faith  our  guide, 

White-robed  and  innocent,  to  tread  the  way,  — 
Why  fear  to  plunge  in  Jordan's  rolling  tide, 
And  find  the  haven  of  eternal  day? 

—  Anon 


NO   MORE   SEA. 

Rev.  21 :  i. 

"\  1  ZHEN  tempests  toss,  and  billows  roll, 
*  *       And  lightnings  rend  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Sweet  is  the  thought  to  me, 
That  one  day  it  shall  not  be  so  : 
In  the  bright  world  to  which  I  go, 
The  tempest  shall  forget  to  blow  : 

There  shall  be  no  more  sea. 

My  little  bark  has  suffered  much 
From  adverse  storms  ;  nor  is  she  such 

As  once  she  seemed  to  be  : 
But  I  shall  shortly  be  at  home, 
No  more  a  mariner  to  roam  ; 
When  once  I  to  the  port  am  come, 

There  will  be  no  more  sea. 

Then  let  the  waves  run  mountains  high, 
Confound  the  deep,  perplex  the  sky, 

This  shall  not  always  be  : 
One  day  the  sun  will  brightly  shine 
With  life,  and  light,  and  heat  divine  ; 
And  when  that  glorious  land  is  mine, 

There  will  be  no  more  sea. 


Gbe  ;)Blte8  of  Ibeaven. 

My  Pilot  tells  me  not  to  fear, 
But  trust  entirely  to  his  care, 

And  he  will  guarantee, 
If  only  I  depend  on  him, 
To  land  me  safe  in  his  good  time, 
In  yonder  purer,  happier  clime, 

Where  shall  be  no  more  sea. 

—  Frederick  Fysh. 


N' 


NO   SHADOWS. 

[o  shadows  gather 

Where  undimm'd  eyes  gaze  on  the  Father 
There  the  thick  veil  of  sin  is  rent, 
And  the  dark  night  of  woe  is  spent ; 
There,  souls  mid  clouds  of  darkness  are  not  groping, 
And  vainly  hoping ! 

There  is  no  yearning, 
No  deep  unrest,  no  spirit  burning, 

No  arms  outstretched,  to  clasp  the  air ; 
No  breaking  hearts  j  no  wild,  wild  prayer ; 
No  grim  despair  to  blight  the  mind  with  madness : 
No  sin,  no  sadness  ! 

There  is  no  sorrow, 
No  storm-winds  wail  of  ill  to-morrow ; 
But  clear,  smooth  waters'  flow, 
And  music  soft  and  low ; 

And  peace-words  from  God's  fount  of  love  are  gushing, 
All  sorrow  hushing ! 

251 


fearless  %anD. 


There  is  no  sighing 
O'er  the  unloving  or  the  dying  : 

There  eloquent  smiles  the  fond  lips  wreathe ; 
There  hearts  of  deathless  friendship  breathe  ; 
There,  where  love  tokens  evermore  are  thronging, 
Is  no  more  longing  ! 

Home  of  the  weary, 

Of  all  the  tempest-wrecked  and  dreary ; 
God,  guide  us  to  thy  brilliant  shore, 
Where  —  wild  waves  swelling  high  no  more  — 
Sorrow  and  sighing  shade  the  spirit  never  — 
Flown,  flown  forever ! 

—  Marianne  Farningham. 

NO  TOSSING   OF   THE   BURNING   HEAD. 

No  tossing  of  the  burning  head 
After  the  long  day's  closing ; 
No  weary  night-long  watches  where 

The  spirit  is  reposing. 
Hot  little  hands  shall  no  more  stretch 

Imploringly  before  us ; 
We  shall  not  weep  in  hopelessness 
When  God's  own  house  is  o'er  us. 

No  crying  of  the  little  ones, 

Waking  our  feeble  pity ; 
No  groans  arise  at  eventide 

Within  the  golden  city ; 
For  God's  own  hand  has  wiped  the  tears 

From  all  that  band  of  weepers, 
And  only  music  soft  and  low 

Awakes  the  peaceful  sleepers. 

252 


No  aching  limbs  lie  helplessly, 

Waiting  the  Saviour's  healing ; 
For  all  are  whole  in  that  blest  home, 

And  perfect  every  feeling. 
No  sighs,  and  sobs,  and  wild  distress, 

No  dread  of  storm  or  riot ; 
But  perfect  health,  unbroken  peace, 

Amid  the  sacred  quiet. 

There  shall  be  no  more  pain  !     O  home 

So  far  from  danger  dreary  ! 
O  holy,  happy  resting-place 

For  all  the  worn  and  weary  ! 
God  guide  our  feeble  halting  feet 

Safe  to  the  blissful  haven  ! 
God  give  us  all  his  healing  touch, 

And  bring  us  all  to  heaven  ! 

—  Marianne  Farningham. 

THE   BLESSED   DEAD. 

TJusH  !  blessed  are  the  dead 
A  A  in  Jesus'  arms  who  rest, 
And  lean  their  weary  head 

For  ever  on  His  breast. 
O  beatific  sight ! 

No  darkling  veil  between, 
They  see  the  Light  of  light, 

Whom  here  they  loved  unseen. 

For  them  the  wild  is 


Them  the  Good  Shepherd  leads, 

Where  storms  are  never  rife, 
In  tranquil  dewy  meads 

Beside  the  Fount  of  Life. 

Ours  only  are  the  tears, 

Who  weep  around  their  tomb, 
The  light  of  bygone  years 

And  shadowing  years  to  come  : 
Their  voice,  their  touch,  their  smile,  — 

Those  love-springs  flowing  o'er,  — 
Earth  for  its  little  while 

Shall  never  know  them  more. 

O  tender  hearts  and  true, 

Our  long  last  vigil  kept, 
We  weep  and  mourn  for  you  ; 

Nor  blame  us  ;  —  Jesus  wept. 
But  soon  at  break  of  day 

His  calm  Almighty  voice, 
Stronger  than  death,  shall  say, 

Awake  !  —  weep  not  !  —  rejoice  ! 

—  Edward  Henry  Bickersteth. 


O  HEAVEN!  SWEET  HEAVEN! 

HEAVEN  !  sweet  heaven  !  the  home  of  the  blest, 
Where  hearts  once  in  trouble  are  ever  at  rest  ; 
Where  eyes  that  could  see  not  rejoice  in  the  light, 
And  beggars  made  princes  are  walking  in  white. 

O  heaven  !  sweet  heaven  !  the  mansion  of  love, 
Where  Christ  in  his  beauty  shines  forth  from  above, 


254 


His  calm  Almighty  voice,  saying 
Awake! — weep  not ! — rejoice!     Page  254 


THK  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


Bliss  of  t&eaven, 


The  Lamb  with  his  scepter,  to  charm  and  control, 
And  love  is  the  sea  that  encircles  the  whole. 

O  heaven  !  sweet  heaven  !  where  purity  reigns, 
Where  error  disturbs  not,  and  sin  never  stains  ; 
Where  holiness  robes  in  its  garments  so  fair 
The  great  multitude  that  is  worshiping  there. 

O  heaven  !  sweet  heaven  !  where  music  ne'er  dies, 
But  rich  pealing  anthems  of  glory  arise  ; 
Where  saints  with  one  feeling  of  rapture  are  stirred, 
And  loud  hallelujahs  forever  are  heard. 

O  heaven  !  sweet  heaven  !  where  friends  never  part, 
But  cords  of  true  friendship  bind  firmly  the  heart ; 
Where  farewell  shall  nevermore  fall  on  the  ear, 
Nor  eyes  that  have  sorrowed  be  dimmed  with  a  tear. 
1862.  — Edwin  H.  Nevin. 

HEAVEN   AT   LAST. 
A  NGEL  voices  sweetly  singing, 


t\ 


Echoes  through  the  blue  dome  ringing, 


News  of  wondrous  gladness  bringing ; 
Ah,  't  is  heaven  at  last ! 

Now,  beneath  us  all  the  grieving, 

All  the  wounded  spirit's  heaving, 

All  the  woe  of  hopes  deceiving ; 

Ah,  't  is  heaven  at  last ! 

Sin  forever  left  behind  us, 
Earthly  visions  cease  to  blind  us, 
Fleshly  fetters  cease  to  bind  us ; 
Ah,  't  is  heaven  at  last ! 


O 


On  the  jasper  threshold  standing, 
Like  a  pilgrim  safely  landing, 
See  the  strange  bright  scene  expanding  ! 
Ah,  't  is  heaven  at  last ! 

What  a  city  !  what  a  glory  ! 
Far  beyond  the  brightest  story 
Of  the  ages  old  and  hoary  ; 
Ah,  't  is  heaven  at  last ! 

Christ  himself  the  living  splendor, 
Christ  the  sunlight  mild  and  tender ; 
Praises  to  the  Lamb  we  render ; 
Ah,  't  is  heaven  at  last ! 


—  Anon. 


X. 


Xort)  of  Ibeavem 


Father,  glorious  with  all  splendor, 

But  with  holiness  most  bright ! 
Son,  in  whom  all  sweet  and  tender, 

Dwelt  on  earth  that  blessed  light! 
Spirit,  through  whose  grace  and  sweetness, 

Into  sinful  souls  is  poured! 
In  this  strain  what  mighty  meetness, 

Holy,  holy,  holy  Lord! 

—  Thomas  H.  Gill. 


257 


After  these  things  I  saw,  and  behold,  a  great  multitude,  which  no 
man  could  number,  out  of  every  nation,  and  of  all  tribes  and 
peoples  and  tongues,  standing  before  the  throne  and  before  the 
Lamb,  arrayed  in  white  robes,  and  palms  in  their  hands;  and  they 
cry  with  a  great  voice,  saying,  Salvation  unto  our  God  which  sitteth 
on  the  throne,  and  unto  the  Lamb.  — Rev.  J  :  9, 10, 

And  a  voice  came  forth  from  the  throne,  saying,  Give  praise  to 
our  God,  all  ye  his  servants,  ye  that  fear  him,  the  small  and  the 
great.  And  I  heard  as  it  were  the  voice  of  a  great  multitude,  and 
as  the  voice  of  many  waters,  and  as  the  voice  of  mighty  thunders, 
saying,  Hallelujah :  for  the  Lord  our  God,  the  Almighty,  reigneth. 
Let  us  rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad,  and  let  us  give  the  glory  unto 
him.  — Rev.  19  .'5-7. 


258 


<±OL 


'JO 


Xorfc  of  Ibeaven, 


THE   SERAPH'S  SONG. 

"  On  his  head  were  many  crowns."  —  Rev.  19 : 12. 

CROWN  Him  with  many  crowns, 
The  Lamb  upon  his  throne  ! 
Hark,  how  the  heavenly  anthem  drowns 
All  music  but  its  own  ! 

Awake,  my  soul,  and  sing 

Of  him  who  died  for  thee  ; 
And  hail  him  as  thy  matchless  King 

Through  all  eternity. 

Crown  him,  the  Virgin's  Son ! 

The  God  incarnate  born, 
Whose  arms  those  crimson  trophies  won 

Which  now  his  brow  adorn. 

Fruit  of  the  mystic  rose, 

As  of  that  rose  the  stem ; 
The  root  whence  mercy  ever  flows, 

The  Babe  of  Bethlehem. 

Crown  him  the  Lord  of  love  ! 

Behold  his  hands  and  side,  — 
Rich  wounds,  yet  visible  above, 

In  beauty  glorified. 

No  angel  in  the  sky 

Can  fully  bear  that  sight, 
But  downward  bends  his  wondering  eye 

At  mysteries  so  bright. 
259 


fearless  Xano* 


1847. 


Crown  him  the  Lord  of  peace  ! 

Whose  power  a  scepter  sways 
From  pole  to  pole,  that  wars  may  cease, 

Absorbed  in  prayer  and  praise. 

His  reign  shall  know  no  end ; 

And  round  his  pierced  feet 
Fair  flowers  of  paradise  extend 

Their  fragrance  ever  sweet. 

Crown  him  the  Lord  of  years, 

The  Potentate  of  time, 
Creator  of  the  rolling  spheres, 

Ineffably  sublime  ! 

Glassed  in  a  sea  of  light 

Whose  everlasting  waves 
Reflect  his  form  —  the  Infinite, 

Who  lives  and  loves  and  saves. 

Crown  him  the  Lord  of  heaven  ! 

One  with  the  Father  known,  — 
And  the  blest  Spirit,  through  him  given 

From  yonder  Triune  throne  ! 

All  hail !  Redeemer,  hail ! 

For  thou  hast  died  for  me  : 
Thy  praise  shall  never,  never  fail 

Throughout  eternity. 

—  Matthew  Bridges. 

SOON   AND   FOREVER. 

OON  and  forever  !  " 

Such  promise  our  trust, 
Though  ashes  to  ashes, 
And  dust  unto  dust,  — 

260 


All  hail  !  Redeemer,  hail  !     Page  260. 

THK  IMMORTAL  HOPB. 


Soon  and  forever 

Our  union  shall  be 
Made  perfect,  our  glorious 

Redeemer,  in  thee. 
When  the  sins  and  the  sorrows 

Of  time  shall  be  o'er, 
Its  pangs  and  its  partings 

Remembered  no  more, 
When  life  cannot  fail, 

And  when  death  cannot  sever, 
Christians  with  Christ  shall  be 

Soon  and  forever. 

Soon  and  forever 

The  breaking  of  day 
Shall  drive  all  the  night-clouds 

Of  sorrow  away. 
Soon  and  forever 

We  '11  see  as  we  're  seen, 
And  learn  the  deep  meaning 

Of  things  that  have  been ; 
When  fightings  without  us, 

And  fears  from  within, 
Shall  weary  no  more 

In  the  warfare  of  sin ; 
Where  tears,  and  where  fears, 

And  where  death  shall  be  never, 
Christians  with  Christ  shall  be 

Soon  and  forever. 

Soon  and  forever 

The  work  shall  be  done, 

261 


Seatlese 


The  warfare  accomplished, 

The  victory  won  j 
Soon  and  forever 

The  soldier  lay  down 
His  sword  for  a  harp, 

And  his  cross  for  a  crown. 
Then  droop  not  in  sorrow, 

Despond  not  in  fear ; 
A  glorious  to-morrow 

Is  brightening  and  near, 
When,  blessed  reward 

Of  each  faithful  endeavor, 
Christians  with  Christ  shall  be 

Soon  and  forever. 

— /.  S.  B.  MonselL 


NONE   IN   HEAVEN  BUT  THEE. 

LORD  of  earth  1  thy  bounteous  hand 
Well  this  glorious  frame  hath  planned 
Woods  that  wave,  and  hills  that  tower, 
Ocean  rolling  in  his  power, 
All  that  strikes  the  gaze  unsought, 
All  that  charms  the  lonely  thought ;  — 
Friendship,  —  gem  transcending  price ; 
Love,  a  flower  of  Paradise ;  — 
Yet,  amid  this  scene  so  fair, 
Should  I  cease  Thy  smile  to  share, 
What  were  all  its  joys  to  me  ? 
"Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  Thee?" 

Lord  of  heaven  !  beyond  our  sight 
Rolls  a  world  of  purer  light ; 

262 


cUb 


There,  in  Love's  unclouded  reign, 
Parted  hands  shall  join  again  ; 
Martyrs  there,  and  prophets  high, 
Blaze,  a  glorious  company  ;  — 
While  immortal  music  rings 
From  unnumbered  seraph  strings ; 
Oh,  that  scene  is  passing  fair  ! 
Yet  shouldst  Thou  be  absent  there 
What  were  all  its  joys  to  me  ? 
"  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  Thee?" 

Lord  of  earth  and  heaven  !  my  breast 
Seeks  in  thee  its  only  rest ; 
I  was  lost  —  thy  accents  mild 
Homeward  lured  thy  wandering  child ; 
I  was  blind  —  thy  healing  ray 
Charmed  the  long  eclipse  away  ; 
Source  of  every  joy  I  know, 
Solace  of  my  every  woe  ; 
Yet  should  once  thy  smile  divine 
Cease  upon  my  soul  to  shine, 
What  were  heaven  on  earth  to  me  ? 
"  Whom  have  I  in  heaven  but  Thee  ?  " 

—  Sir  Robert  Grant. 


THRONE   AND   TEMPLE. 

SINCE  o'er  thy  footstool  here  below 
Such  radiant  gems  are  strewn, 
Oh,  what  magnificence  must  glow, 

My  God,  about  thy  throne  ! 
So  brilliant  here  those  drops  of  light  — 
Where  the  full  ocean  rolls,  how  bright ! 

263 


fearless  OLanD. 


If  night's  blue  curtain  of  the  sky, 

With  thousand  stars  inwrought, 
Hung  like  a  glittering  canopy 

With  royal  diamonds  fraught, 
Be,  Lord,  thy  temple's  outer  veil, 
What  splendor  at  the  shrine  must  dwell ! 

The  dazzling  sun,  at  noontide  hour, 

Forth  from  his  flaming  vase 
Flinging  o'er  earth  the  golden  shower 

Till  vale  and  mountain  blaze,  — 
But  shows,  O  Lord,  one  beam  of  thine, 
What,  then,  the  Day,  where  thou  dost  shine ! 

Oh,  how  shall  these  dim  eyes  endure 

That  noon  of  living  rays  ; 
Or  how  my  spirit,  so  impure, 

Upon  Thy  glory  gaze  ? 
Anoint,  O  Lord,  anoint  my  sight, 
And  robe  me  for  that  world  of  light ! 

—  W.A.  Muhlenberg. 

WHOM   MY   SOUL   ADORETH. 
T  KNOW  the  walls  are  jasper, 

The  palaces  are  fair, 
And  to  the  sounds  of  harpings 
The  saints  are  singing  there ; 
I  know  that  living  waters 

Flow  under  fruitful  trees ; 
But  oh,  to  make  my  heaven, 
It  needeth  more  than  these  ! 

Read  in  the  sacred  story, 
What  more  doth  it  unfold, 

264 


Beside  the  pearly  gateways 

And  streets  of  shining  gold  ? 
No  temple  hath  that  city, 

For  none  is  needed  there, 
No  sun  nor  moon  enlighteneth ;  — 

Can  darkness  then  be  fair  ? 

Ah,  now  the  bright  revealing, 

The  crowning  joy  of  all ! 
What  need  of  other  sunshine 

Where  God  is  all  in  all? 
He  fills  the  wide  ethereal 

With  glory  all  his  own,  — 
He,  whom  my  soul  adoreth, 

The  Lamb  amidst  the  throne  ! 

Oh,  heaven  without  my  Saviour 

Would  be  no  heaven  to  me ; 
Dim  were  the  walls  of  jasper, 

Rayless  the  crystal  sea. 
He  gilds  earth's  darkest  valleys 

With  light  and  joy  and  peace  ; 
What  then  must  be  the  radiance 

When  night  and  death  shall  cease  ! 

Speed  on,  O  lagging  moments  ! 

Come,  birthday  of  the  soul ! 
How  long  the  night  appeareth, 

The  hours,  how  slow  they  roll ! 
How  sweet  the  welcome  summons 

That  greets  the  willing  bride  ! 
And  when  mine  eyes  behold  him, 

"  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

—  Helen  M.  Parmlee. 
265 


bc  vlearlcss  XanD. 

DWELLING   IN   LIGHT. 

His  scepter  is  the  rod  of  Righteousnesse, 
With  which  He  bruseth  all  his  foes  to  dust, 
And  the  great  dragon  strongly  doth  represse, 
Under  the  rigour  of  his  iudgment  iust ; 
His  seate  is  Truth,  to  which  the  faithfull  trust, 
From  whence  proceed  her  beames  so  pure  and  bright, 
That  all  about  Him  sheddeth  glorious  light. 

But  that  immortall  light  which  there  doth  shine 
Is  many  thousand  times  more  bright,  more  cleare, 

More  excellent,  more  glorious,  more  divine, 
Through  which  to  God  all  mortall  actions  here, 
And  even  the  thoughts  of  men,  do  plaine  appeare ; 

For  from  th'  Eternall  Truth  it  doth  proceed, 

Through  heavenly  vertue  which  her  beames  doe  breed. 

With  the  great  glorie  of  that  wondrous  light 
His  throne  is  all  encompassed  around, 

And  hid  in  his  owne  brightnesse  from  the  sight 
Of  all  that  look  thereon  with  eyes  unsound  ; 
And  underneath  his  feet  are  to  be  found 

Thunder,  and  lightning,  and  tempestuous  fyre, 

The  instruments  of  his  avenging  yre. 

There,  in  his  bosome,  Sapience  doth  sit, 
The  soveraine  dearling  of  the  Deity, 

Clad  like  a  queene,  in  royall  robes  most  fit 
For  so  great  powre  and  peerelesse  majesty, 
And  all  with  gemmes  and  iewels  gorgeously 

Adorned,  that  brighter  than  the  starres  appeare, 

And  make  her  native  brightnesse  seem  more  cleare. 

266 


L 


<ux 


And  on  her  head  a  crown  of  purest  gold 

Is  set,  in  signe  of  highest  soverainty ; 
And  in  her  hand  a  scepter  she  doth  hold, 

With  which  she  rules  the  house  of  God  on  hy, 

And  menageth  the  ever-moving  sky, 
And  in  the  same  these  lower  creatures  all 
Subiected  to  her  powre  imperiall. 

—  Edmund  Spenser. 

THE   GLORY  THAT   EXCELS. 

OH,  fair  the  gleams  of  glory, 
And  bright  the  scenes  of  mirth, 
That  lighten  human  story 

And  cheer  this  weary  earth ; 
But  richer  far  the  treasure 

With  whom  the  Spirit  dwells,  — 
Ours,  ours  in  heavenly  measure, 
The  glory  that  excels. 

The  lamplight  faintly  gleameth 

Where  shines  the  noonday  ray ; 
From  Jesus'  face  there  beameth 

Light  of  the  sevenfold  day  ; 
And  earth's  pale  lights,  all  faded, 

The  Light  from  heaven  dispels ; 
But  shines  for  aye  unshaded 

The  glory  that  excels. 

No  broken  cisterns  need  they 

Who  drink  from  living  rills  ; 
No  other  music  heed  they 

Whom  God's  own  music  thrills. 


*o 


fearless  XanD. 


Earth's  precious  things  are  tasteless ; 

Its  boisterous  mirth  repels, 
Where  flows  in  measure  wasteless 

The  glory  that  excels. 

Since  on  our  life  descended 

Those  beams  of  light  and  love, 
Our  steps  have  heavenward  tended, 

Our  eyes  have  looked  above, 
Till  through  the  clouds  concealing 

The  home  where  glory  dwells, 
Our  Jesus  comes  revealing 

The  glory  that  excels. 

—  Rev.  Charles  Innes  Cameron. 


M 


THE   PRINCE   OF   PEACE. 
Y  soul,  there  is  a  countrie 


Afar  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentrie, 
All  skillful  in  the  wars. 

There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 

And  One  born  in  a  manger 
Commands  the  beauteous  files. 

He  is  thy  gracious  Friend, 

And  (O  my  soul,  awake  !) 
Did  in  pure  love  descend 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 

If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 
There  grows  the  flowre  of  peace, 

The  rose  that  cannot  wither, 
Thy  fortresse  and  thy  ease. 
268 


i68i. 


Leave,  then,  thy  foolish  ranges, 

For  none  can  thee  secure 
But  One,  who  never  changes, 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 

—  Henry  Vaughan. 

ALONE   UPON   THAT   SHORE. 


ALONE  !  to  land  alone  upon  that  shore, 
With  no  one  sight  that  we  have  seen  before 
Things  of  a  different  hue, 
And  the  sounds  all  new, 
And  fragrances  so  sweet,  the  soul  may  faint. 
Alone  !  O  that  first  hour  of  being  a  saint ! 

Alone  !  to  land  alone  upon  that  shore, 
On  which  no  wavelets  lisp,  no  billows  roar ; 

Perhaps  no  shape  of  ground, 

Perhaps  no  sight  or  sound  ; 
No  forms  of  earth  our  fancy  to  arrange, 
But  to  begin  alone  that  mighty  change. 

Alone  !  to  land  alone  upon  that  shore, 
Knowing  so  well  we  can  return  no  more ; 

No  voice  or  face  of  friend, 

None  with  us  to  attend 
Our  disembarking  on  that  awful  strand, 
But  to  arrive  alone  in  such  a  land  ! 

Alone  !  to  land  alone  upon  that  shore ; 
To  begin  alone  to  live  for  evermore  ; 

To  have  no  one  to  teach 

The  manners  or  the  speech 
Of  that  new  life,  or  put  us  at  our  ease  — 
Oh,  that  we  might  die  in  pairs  or  companies  ! 
269 


Alone  ?    No  !  God  hath  been  there  long  before 
Eternally  hath  waited  on  that  shore 

For  us  who  were  to  come 

To  our  eternal  home, 
And  he  hath  taught  his  angels  to  prepare 
In  what  way  we  are  to  be  welcomed  there. 

Like  one  that  waits  and  watches,  He  hath  sate 
As  if  there  were  none  else  for  whom  to  wait ; 

Waiting  for  us,  —  for  us 

Who  keep  him  waiting  thus, 
And  who  bring  less  to  satisfy  his  love 
Than  any  other  of  the  souls  above. 

Alone  ?     The  God  we  know  is  on  that  shore, 
The  God  of  whose  attractions  we  know  more 

Than  of  those  who  may  appear 

Nearest  and  dearest  here ; 
Oh,  is  He  not  the  life-long  Friend  we  know 
More  privately  than  any  friend  below  ? 

Alone  ?     The  God  we  trust  is  on  that  shore, 
The  Faithful  One  whom  we  have  trusted  more, 

In  trials  and  in  woes, 

Than  we  have  trusted  those 
On  whom  we  leaned  most  in  our  earthly  strife ; 
Oh,  we  shall  trust  Him  more  in  that  new  life  ! 

Alone  ?     The  God  we  love  is  on  that  shore, 
Love  not  enough,  yet  whom  we  love  far  more, 

And  whom  we  Ve  loved  all  through, 

And  with  a  love  more  true 

Than  other  loves,  —  yet  now  shall  love  him  more 
True  love  of  Him  begins  upon  that  shore. 
270 


cUX 


70 


Ebe  SLorD  ot  tbeaven. 

So  not  alone  we  land  upon  that  shore  ; 

T  will  be  as  though  we  had  been  there  before. 

We  shall  meet  more  we  know 

Than  we  can  meet  below, 
And  find  our  rest  like  some  returning  dove, 
And  be  at  home  at  once  with  our  Eternal  Love  ! 

— F.  W.Faber. 


PALM-BEARERS. 

PALMS  of  glory,  raiment  bright, 
Crowns  that  never  fade  away, 
Gird  and  deck  the  saints  in  light ; 

Priests,  and  kings,  and  conquerors  they. 

Yet  the  conquerors  bring  their  palms 
To  the  Lamb  amidst  the  throne, 

And  proclaim,  in  joyful  psalms, 
Victory  through  His  cross  alone. 

Kings  for  harps  their  crowns  resign, 
Crying,  as  they  strike  the  chords, 

"  Take  the  kingdom,  it  is  thine, 

King  of  kings,  and  Lord  of  lords  !  " 

Round  the  altar  priests  confess, 
If  their  robes  are  white  as  snow, 

'T  was  the  Saviour's  righteousness, 
And  his  blood,  that  made  them  so. 

Who  were  these  ?    On  earth  they  dwelt, 
Sinners  once  of  Adam's  race  ; 

Guilt,  and  fear,  and  suffering  felt, 
But  were  saved  by  sovereign  grace. 
271 


fearless  Xanfc* 


They  were  mortal,  too,  like  us  ; 

Ah  !  when  we  like  them  must  die, 
May  our  souls,  translated  thus, 

Triumph,  reign,  and  shine  on  high  ! 

—  James  Montgomery. 


THE  FIRST  MARTYR. 

HTEN  thousand  times  ten  thousand  sung 

Loud  anthems  round  the  throne, 
When,  lo  !  one  solitary  tongue 
Began  a  song  unknown,  — 
A  song  unknown  to  angel  ears, 
A  song  that  told  of  banished  fears, 
Of  pardoned  sins  and  dried-up  tears. 

Not  one  of  all  the  heavenly  host 
Could  these  high  notes  attain  ; 
But  spirits  from  a  distant  coast 

United  in  the  strain, 
Till  he  who  first  began  the  song, 
To  sing  alone  not  suffered  long, 
Was  mingled  with  a  countless  throng. 

And  still,  as  hours  are  fleeting  by, 

The  angels  ever  bear 
Some  newly-ransomed  soul  on  high, 

To  join  the  chorus  there ; 
And  so  the  song  will  louder  grow, 
Till  all,  redeemed  by  Christ  below, 
To  that  fair  world  of  rapture  go. 

272 


70 


E 

S  a 

«   2 


XorD  of  Ibeaven. 


Oh,  give  me,  Lord,  my  golden  harp, 

And  tune  my  broken  voice, 
That  I  may  sing  of  troubles  sharp 

Exchanged  for  endless  joys  ; 
The  song  that  ne'er  was  heard  before, 
A  sinner  reached  the  heavenly  shore, 
But  now  shall  sound  for  evermore. 


—  Anon. 


THAT   HOLY   SABBATH   DAY.1 

PART  I. 

OH,  what  shall  be,  oh,  when  shall  be 
That  holy  Sabbath  day, 
Which  heavenly  care  shall  ever  keep, 

And  celebrate  alway ; 
When  rest  is  found  for  weary  limbs, 

When  labor  hath  reward, 
When  everything,  for  evermore, 
Is  joyful  in  the  Lord  ? 

The  true  Jerusalem  above, 

The  holy  town  is  there, 
Whose  duties  are  so  full  of  joy, 

Whose  joys  so  free  from  care ; 
Where  disappointment  cometh  not 

To  check  the  longing  heart, 
And  where  the  soul  in  ecstasy 

Hath  gained  her  better  part. 

There,  there,  secure  from  every  ill, 

In  freedom  we  shall  sing 
The  songs  of  Zion,  hindered  here 

By  days  of  suffering ; 

Note  8.  273 


fearless  XanD* 

And  unto  Thee,  our  gracious  Lord, 

Our  praises  shall  confess 
That  all  our  sorrow  hath  been  good, 

And  Thou  by  pain  canst  bless. 

PART  II. 

O  glorious  King  !  O  happy  State  ! 

O  Palace  of  the  Blest ! 
O  sacred  peace,  and  holy  joy, 

And  perfect  heavenly  rest ! 
To  thee  aspire  thy  citizens 

In  glory's  bright  array, 
And  what  they  feel  and  what  they  know 

They  strive  in  vain  to  say. 

But  while  we  wait  and  long  for  home, 

It  shall  be  ours  to  raise 
Our  songs  and  chants  and  vows  and  prayers 

In  that  dear  country's  praise  ; 
And  from  these  Babylonian  streams 

To  lift  our  weary  eyes, 
And  view  the  city  that  we  love 

Descending  from  the  skies. 

There  Sabbath  day  to  Sabbath  day 

Shed  on  a  ceaseless  light ; 
Eternal  pleasure  of  the  saints 

Who  keep  that  Sabbath  bright ; 
Nor  shall  the  chant  ineffable 

Decline,  nor  ever  cease, 
Which  we  with  all  the  angels  sing 

In  that  sweet  realm  of  peace. 
Tr.  1883.  —  Peter  Abelard.     Tr.  by 

Rev.  S.  W.  Duffieid. 
274 


70 


HIS  NAME  SHALL  BE  IN  THEIR  FOREHEADS. 


WHEN  I  shall  go  where  my  Redeemer  is, 
In  the  far  city  on  the  other  side, 
And  at  the  threshold  of  his  palaces 

Shall  loose  my  sandals,  ever  to  abide ; 
I  know  my  heavenly  King  will  smiling  wait 
To  give  me  welcome  as  I  touch  the  gate. 

Oh,  joy  !  oh,  bliss  !  for  I  shall  see  his  face, 
And  wear  his  blessed  name  upon  my  brow  ! 

The  name  that  stands  for  pardon,  love,  and  grace, 
The  name  before  which  every  knee 'shall  bow. 

No  music  half  so  sweet  can  ever  be 

As  that  dear  name  which  he  shall  write  for  me  ! 

Crowned  with  his  royal  signet,  I  shall  walk 

With  lifted  forehead  through  the  eternal  street ; 

And  with  a  holier  mien,  and  gentler  talk, 
Will  tell  my  story  to  the  friends  I  meet  — 

Of  how  the  King  did  stoop  his  name  to  write 

Upon  my  brow,  in  characters  of  light ! 

Then,  till  I  go  to  meet  my  Father's  smile, 

I  '11  keep  my  forehead  smooth  from  passion's  scars, 

From  angry  frowns  that  trample  and  defile, 
And  every  sin  that  desecrates  or  mars  ; 

That  I  may  lift  a  face  unflushed  with  shame, 

Whereon  my  Lord  may  write  his  holy  name. 

—  May  Riley  Smith. 

THE   PALACE   O'   THE   KING. 

IT  's  a  bonnie,  bonnie  warP  that  we  're  livin'  in  the  noo ; 
Aften  sunny  is  the  Ian'  that  here  we  pilgrims  traivel 
throo, 

275 


fearless  XanD. 


But  in  vain  we  look  for  something  here  to  which  oor 

herts  may  cling, 
For  its  beauty  is  as  naething  to  the  Palace  o'  the  King. 

We  like  the  gilded  simmer,  wi'  its  merry,  merry  tread, 
And  we  sigh  when  hoary  Winter  lays  its  beauties  wi'  the 

dead; 
For  tho'  bonnie   are  the   snawflakes  an'  the   down   on 

Winter's  wing, 
It 's  fine  to  ken  he  daurna  touch  the  Palace  o'  the  King. 

Then  again,  I  've  juist  been  thinkin'  that  when  a'  thing 

here  's  sae  bright, 
The  sun  in  a'  its  grandeur,  an'  the  mune  wi'  quiv'rin' 

light, 

The  ocean  i'  the  simmer,  or  the  woodlan'  in  the  spring, 
What  maun  it  be  oop  yonner  i'  the  Palace  o'  the  King  ! 

It 's  here  we  hae  oor  trials,  and  it 's  here  that  He  prepares 
His  chosen  for  the  raiment  which  the  ransomed  sinner 

wears ; 
An'  it 's  here  that  He  wad  hear  us  mid  oor  tribulations 

sing, 
"We'll  trust  the  God  wha'  reigneth  i'  the  Palace  o'  the. 

King." 

Oh,  it 's  honor  heaped  on  honor,  that  His  courtiers  should 

be  ta'en 
Frae  the  wand'rin'  anes  he  died  for  i'  this  warF  of  sin 

and  pain, 
An'  it's  fu'est  love  an'  service  that  the  Christians  aye 

should  bring 
To  the  feet  of  Him  wha  reigneth  i'  the   Palace  o'  the 


of  Ibeavetu 


The  time  for  sawin'  seed,  it 's  a  wearin',  wearin'  dune, 
An'  the  time  for  winnin'  souls  will  be  ower  very  sune, 
Then  lat  us  a'  be  active,  if  a  fruit-sheaf  we  wad  bring 
To  adorn  the  royal  table  i'  the  Palace  o'  the  King. 

Then  lat  us  trust  him  better  than  we  've  ever  dune  afore, 

For  the  King  will  feed  his  servants  frae  his  ever  boun- 
teous store ; 

Lat  us  keep  a  closer  grup  o'  him,  for  the  time  is  on  the 
wing, 

An'  sune  he  '11  come  an'  take  us  tae  the  Palace  o'  the 
King. 

Its  iv'ry  halls  are  bonnie  upon  which  the  rainbows  shine, 
An'  its  Eden  bowers  are  trellised  wi'  a  never  leafless 

Vine; 
An'  the  pearly  gates  of  heaven  do  a  glorious  radiance 

fling 
On  the  starry  floor  that  shimmers  i'  the  Palace  o'  the 

King. 

Nae  nicht  shall  be  in  heaven,  an'  nae  desolatin'  sea, 
An'  nae  tyrant  hoofs  shall  trample  in  the  city  of  the  free  ; 
There  's  everlastin'  daylight,  an'  a  never  fadin'  spring, 
Where  the  Lamb  is  a'  the  glory  i'  the  Palace  o'  the  King. 

We  see  oor  friens  await  us  ower  yonner  at  his  gate ; 
Then  lat  us  a'  be  ready,  for  ye  ken  it 's  gettin'  late ; 
Lat  oor  lamps  be  brichtly  burnin' ;  lat  us  raise  oor  voice 

and  sing, 

For  sune  we  '11  meet  to  pairt  no  more  i'  the  Palace  o'  the 
King. 

—  William  Mitchell. 
277 


?o 


fearless  %anD. 


AT   HOME   WITH  JESUS. 

SWEET  home-echo  on  the  pilgrim's  way, 

Thrice  welcome  message  from  a  land  of  light ! 
As  through  a  clouded  sky  the  moonbeams  stray, 

So  on  eternity's  deep  shrouded  night 
Streams  a  mild  radiance,  from  that  cheering  word : 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

At  home  with  Jesus  ?     He  who  went  before, 
For  his  own  people  mansions  to  prepare ; 

The  soul's  deep  longings  stilled,  its  conflicts  o'er, 
All  rest  and  blessedness  with  Jesus  there. 

What  home  like  this  can  the  wide  earth  afford  ? 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

With  him  all  gathered  !     To  that  blessed  home, 
Through  all  its  windings,  still  the  pathway  tends ; 

While  ever  and  anon  bright  glimpses  come 
Of  that  fair  city  where  the  journey  ends. 

Where  all  of  bliss  is  centered  in  one  word : 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

Here,  kindred  hearts  are  severed  far  and  wide, 
By  many  a  weary  mile  of  land  and  sea, 

Or  life's  all  varied  cares  and  paths  divide ; 
But  yet  a  joyful  gathering  shall  be, 

The  broken  links  repaired,  the  lost  restored, 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

And  is  there  ever  perfect  union  here  ? 

Ah,  daily  sins,  lamented  and  confessed, 
They  come  between  us  and  the  friends  most  dear, 

They  mar  our  blessedness  and  break  our  rest. 

278 


What  home  like  this  can  the  wide  earth  afford.     Page  278. 

THE  IMMORTAL  HOPE. 


Gbe  TLorD  of  Ibeavetu 

With  life  we  leave  the  evils  long  deplored : 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

All  prone  to  error,  none  set  wholly  free 

From  the  old  serpent's  soul-ensnaring  chain, 

The  truths  one  child  of  God  can  clearly  see, 
He  seeks  to  make  his  brother  feel  in  vain ; 

But  all  shall  harmonize  in  heaven's  full  chord  j 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

O  blessed  promise  !  mercifully  given, 

Well  may  it  hush  the  wail  of  earthly  woe ; 
O'er  the  dark  passage  to  the  gates  of  heaven 
The  light  of  hope  and  resurrection  throw ! 
Thanks  for  the  blessed,  life-inspiring  word  : 
"  So  shall  we  be  forever  with  the  Lord." 

—  Mrs.  Meta  Heusser-Schweizer. 

Tr.  by  Jane  Borthwick. 


279 


motes. 


Note  i.    "  The  Celestial  Country,"  p.  31. 

The  original  of  this  poem  was  written  by  Bernard,  a  monk  of  Clunyr 
about  A.D.  1145,  and  consists  in  the  Latin  of  some  three  thousand  lines. 
It  was  dedicated  to  Peter  the  Venerable,  General  of  the  Order  to  which 
Bernard  belonged.  It  is  found  in  the  Bodleian  Library  in  a  thirteenth- 
century  MS. 

The  poem  was  evidently  inspired  by  the  closing  chapters  of  the  book 
of  Revelation  on  the  one  side  and  by  the  evil  condition  of  the  world  on 
the  other.  It  was  called  by  its  author  "  De  Contemptu  Mundi,"  be- 
cause of  the  fact  that  it  expressed  his  disgust  with  this  world.  It  is  in 
fact  a  severe  satire  on  the  corruptions  of  the  times,  which  are  so  con- 
trasted with  the  glories  and  the  joys  of  heaven  as  to  make  this  life 
appear  hardly  worth  the  living.  It  is  known  also  by  the  name  "  Laus 
Patrise  Coelestis,"  that  being  the  caption  given  by  Archbishop  Trench  to 
the  cento  of  about  one  hundred  lines  which  he  took  from  various  por- 
tions of  the  poem. 

The  poem  was  written  in  a  rhythm  "  of  intense  difficulty."  It  is  a 
dactylic  hexameter,  with  the  leonine  and  tailed  rhyme,  after  the  manner 
of  the  monkish  efforts  in  the  Middle  Ages.  The  embarrassments  of  the 
effort  can  readily  be  seen  from  the  following  initial  lines,  broken  up  for 
ease  of  scanning :  — 

Hora  novissima  ||  tempora  pessima  ||  sunt:  vigilemus! 
Ecce  menaciter  ||  imminet  arbiter  ||  ille  supremus! 
Imminet,  imminet  ||  ut  mala  terminet  [|  aequa  coronet 
Recta  remuneret  ||  unxia  liberet  ||  aethera  donet. 

Referring  in  his  introduction  to  the  complications  to  be  overcome  in 
such  a  meter,  the  author  naively  says  that  the  two  most  eminent  versi- 
fiers of  his  day,  Hildebert  of  Lavardin  and  Wichard,  Canon  of  Lyons, 
had  attempted  but  little  in  it  because  of  its  impracticability,  and  adds : 
"  I  may  then  assert,  not  in  ostentation,  but  with  humble  confidence,  that 
if  I  had  not  received  directly  from  on  high  the  gift  of  inspiration  and 
intelligence,  I  had  not  dared  to  attempt  an  enterprise  so  little  accorded 
to  the  powers  of  the  human  mind."  It  may  safely  be  said  that  such  a 
task  could  have  been  accomplished  only  in  the  leisure  and  retirement 
of  a  cloister. 

281 


JO 


fearless 


Of  course  the  arduousness  of  the  meter  has  been  a  hindrance  to  its 
literal  translation.  What  was  hard  for  the  author  is  tenfold  more  diffi- 
cult for  the  translator,  inasmuch  as  he  has  not  the  privilege  of  yielding 
to  the  leadings  of  the  rhyme.  Yet  the  task  has  been  attempted  in  two 
instances,  and  with  fair  results.  The  translation  by  Gerard  Moultrie, 
published  in  The  Church  Times  and  in  Lyra  Mystica  in  1865,  is  praised 
by  Archbishop  Trench  as  metrically  close  and  beautiful.  Though  a 
remarkable  achievement,  it  is  faulty  in  that  it  omits  the  double  rhyme. 
That  by  Rev.  Samuel  W.  Duffield,  published  in  1867  in  a  booklet  called 
"The  Heavenly  Land,"  is  faithful  in  every  particular  to  the  original. 
Mr.  Duffield  was  peculiarly  fitted  for  such  an  undertaking,  being  him- 
self a  ready  and  apt  versifier.  The  whole  translation  is  too  long  for 
reproduction  here,  but  two  quotations  are  given  for  the  purpose  of  show- 
ing both  the  metrical  difficulties  of  the  original  and  how  fairly  Mr. 
Duffield  succeeded  in  overcoming  them  in  the  translation :  — 

Land  of  delightfulness,  safe  from  all  spitefulness,  safe  from  all  trouble 

Thou  shall  be  filled  again,  Israel  built  again,  joy  shall  redouble. 

Land  all  beneficent,  country  magnificent,  succored  from  dangers, 

Given  thou  art  to  be  and  there  have  part  in  thee  home-born  and  strangers; 

While  upon  men  around,  glory  shall  then  abound,  vision  supernal 

Of  that  great  dignity,  full  of  benignity,  peace,  pure,  eternal  — 

Peace  without  wickedness,  peace  without  wretchedness,  peace  without  quarrel, 

Goal  to  all  wanderings,  rest  to  all  ponderings,  — conquest  and  laurel. 

Portion  shall  then  be  mine  in  the  dear  Lord  divine ;  I  shall  distinguish 

Him  the  Sole  Beautiful,  whom  the  true  dutiful  never  relinquish. 

Jacob  with  Israel  and  Leah  with  Rachel  then  change  condition; 

Then  Sion's  palace  halls  rise  where  no  malice  falls,  lift  to  completion. 


Thou  hast  no  wave  or  strand,  thou  hast  no  grave  or  band  —  rill  and  yet  river ! 
Sweet  wines  there  flow  for  us,  jewels  there  glow  for  us,  radiant  ever. 
Laurels  and  golden  toys  better  than  olden  joys  thou  there  shalt  gather: 
Yet  in  thy  deference  Jesus  hath  preference,  his  art  thou  rather. 
Lilies  like  driven  snow,  gems  set  in  even  row,  wait  for  thy  wearing. 
The  Lamb  is  still  with  thee,  that  Spouse  is  still  with  thee,  clear  light  declaring. 
No  occupation  there,  no  aspiration  there,  save  but  the  sweet  singing, 
Telling  of  life  preserved  granted  for  grief  deserved,  gratitude  bringing. 

City  of  luster  rare,  none  but  the  just  are  there,  thou  shalt  not  crumble; 
Proud  hearts  are  stupefied,  and,  from  the  Crucified,  learn  to  be  humble. 
Naught  I  know,  naught  I  know,  what  joys  then  ought  to  grow,  what  rays  shine 

o'er  thee, 

How  deep  thy  pleasures  are,  how  rare  thy  treasures  are,  in  years  before  thee! 
When  I  have  tried  thy  praise,  wonder  denied  my  lays,  foiled  I  desisted. 
O  best  of  any  light !  in  thee  does  any  sight  fail  unassisted. 

282 


•Notes. 


Sion,  majestic  place,  mansion  of  mystic  grace,  heaven-built  o'er  me, 

Now  I  rejoice  in  thee,  now  does  my  voice  in  me  fail  —  I  long  for  thee ! 

Thee,  though  my  flesh  be  weak,  strive  I  afresh  to  seek  by  my  heart's  yearning; 

But  through  my  earthiness  and  earth's  unworthiness,  faint  in  my  learning: 

No  one  discloseth  yet,  no  one  exposeth  yet,  unto  us  mortals 

Where  are  thy  walls  of  light,  on  which  there  falls  no  night,  or  where  are  thy 

portals. 

Thou  dost  each  soul  oppress  with  thy  fair  holiness,  Sion  the  peaceful! 
City  where  time  is  not,  praise  though  my  rhyme  is  not  aught  but  disgraceful. 
O  thou  secure  from  sin,  whom  tears  endure  not  in  —  thou  without  striving; 
Land  of  the  rarest  grace,  country  of  fairest  face  —  ever  surviving ! 

Though  Mr.  Duffield  succeeded  so  well,  yet  he  himself  regarded  his 
rendering  as  more  curious  than  useful.  In  that  conclusion  we  must 
reluctantly  agree,  though  there  are  not  a  few  lines,  as  shown  in  the  quo- 
tations, that  will  linger  in  the  memory.  The  reproduction  which  will 
live  is  the  one  by  Rev.  John  Mason  Neale,  D.I).  He  paraphrased  but  a 
portion  of  the  poem,  making  use  of  the  ballad  measure,  instead  of  the 
involved  meter  of  the  original.  This  left  him  comparatively  free  frona 
the  entanglements  of  rhyme  and  meter  to  reproduce  the  spirit  and  the 
thoughts  of  the  poem.  It  must  be  said  that  Dr.  Neale  more  than  caught 
the  spirit  of  the  author.  While  faithful  to  his  thought,  it  must  be  the 
verdict  of  those  who  compare  the  original  with  the  translation,  that  he 
has  so  worked  it  all  over  that  the  result  is  almost  as  much  his  own  as 
though  he  had  originally  conceived  it.  From  his  paraphrase  have  been 
taken  those  familiar  and  much  prized  hymns,  which  can  never  be  dis- 
lodged from  the  hearts  of  true  worshipers :  — 

"  The  world  is  very  evil." 
"  Brief  life  is  here  our  portion." 
"  For  thee,  O  dear,  dear  country." 
"  Jerusalem  the  golden." 

Note  2.  "  O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem,"  p.  46.  "  Jerusalem,  my  happy 
Home,"  p.  59. 

This  hymn,  which  is  but  a  portion  of  the  original,  is  ascribed  to  Rev. 
David  Dickson,  and  came  into  use  about  1650-1670.  He,  however, 
evidently  was  not  the  author,  but  appears  to  have  made  up  his  verses 
from  W.  Prid's  hymn,  which  has  the  same  beginning,  and  from  "  A 
Song,"  by  F.  B.  P.,  both  of  which  in  turn  seem  to  have  been  drawn  from 
the  same  source,  inasmuch  as  they  have  some  stanzas  which  are  much 
alike.  The  latter  has  been  regarded  as  a  free  translation  of 

Urbs  beata  Hierusalem 
Dicta  pacis  visio, 


vfcv 


fearless 


which  was  written  in  the  seventh  century,  with  the  exception  of  the  con- 
clusion, Angulare  fundamentum,  which  probably  is  an  addition  of  the 
same  or  the  succeeding  century.  Urbs  beata,  vera  pads  is  a  recast  of 
this  dedication  hymn.  On  the  title-page  of  Prid's  hymn,  however,  is 
stated  the  fact  that  his  poem  is  "  faithfully  translated  (out  of  S.  Augus- 
tine his  booke,  intituled  Speculum  peccatoris)."  If  the  two  came  from 
the  same  source,  this  would  definitely  indicate  the  origin.  Prid's  hymn 
was  published  in  London  by  John  Windet,  in  1585.  The  first  stanza  is 
as  follows :  — 

O  Mother  deare  Hierusalem, 
Jehouas  throne  on  hie : 

O  Sacred  Citie,  Queene  and  Wife, 
Of  Christ  eternally. 

The  greater  interest  attaches  to  the  song  of  F.  B.  P.,  from  which 
comes  the  larger  portion  of  our  modern  "  O  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem," 
and  which  has  given  to  us  the  hymn,  "  Jerusalem,  my  happy  Home." 
It  is  preserved  in  a  thin  quarto,  numberedl  15,225,  in  the  British  Museum, 
and  is  indorsed  on  the  back,  "  Queen  Elizabeth."  The  quarto  contains 
several  other  pieces  of  poetry,  evidently  by  Roman  Catholics.  This  one 
is  there  recorded  as  follows  :  — 

A  SONG  MAD  BY  F:   B:  P: 

To  the  tune  of  Diana. 
"  i  Hierusalem  my  happie  home 
When  shall  I  come  to  thee 
When  shall  my  sorrowes  haue  an  end 

Thy  ioyes  when  shall  I  see 
"20  happie  harbour  of  God's  saints 

O  sweete  and  pleasant  soyle 
In  thee  noe  sorrow  may  be  founde 
Noe  greefe,  noe  care,  noe  toyle 
"  3  In  thee  noe  sicknesse  may  be  scene 

Noe  hurt ,  noe  ache,  noe  sore 
There  is  no  death,  nor  uglie  devill 

There  is  life  for  euermore 
"  4  Noe  dampish  mist  is  scene  in  thee 
Noe  could,  nor  darksome  night 
There  everie  soule  shines  as  the  sunne 

There  god  himself  gives  light 
"  5  There  lust  and  lukar  cannot  dwell 

There  envie  beares  noe  sway 
There  is  no  hunger  heate  nor  coulde 
But  pleasure  everie  way 

284 


CU3 


JO 


Botes* 


"6  Hierusalem:  Hierusalem 

God  grant  I  once  may  see 
Thy  endlesse  ioyes  and  of  the  same 

Partaker  aye  to  bee. 
**  7  Thy  wales  are  made  of  precious  stones 

Thy  bulwarks  Diamondes  square 
Thy  gates  are  of  right  orient  pearle 

Exceedinge  riche  and  rare 
"  8  Thy  terrettes  and  thy  pinacles 

With  carbuncles  doe  shine 
Thy  verie  streetes  are  paued  with  gould 

Surpassinge  cleare  and  fine 
"  9  Thy  houses  are  of  Ivorie 

Thy  windoes  cristale  cleare 
Thy  tyles  are  mad  of  beaten  gould 

O  god  that  I  were  there 
"  10  Within  thy  gates  nothinge  doeth  come 

That  is  not  passinge  cleane 
Noe  spiders  web,  noe  durt  noe  dust 

Noe  nlthe  may  there  be  scene 
"  ii  Ah  my  sweete  home  Hierusaleme 

Would  god  I  were  in  thee 
Would  god  my  woes  were  at  an  end 

Thy  ioyes  that  I  might  see 
"  12  Thy  saints  are  crownd  with  glorie  great 

They  see  god  face  to  face 
They  triumph  still,  they  still  reioyce 

Most  happie  is  their  case 
"  13  We  that  are  heere  in  banishment 

Continuallie  doe  mourne 
We  sighe  and  sobbe,  we  weepe  and  weale 

Perpetually  we  groane 
"  14  Our  sweete  is  mixt  with  bitter  gaule 

Our  pleasure  is  but  paine 
Our  ioyes  scarce  last  the  lookeing  on 

Our  sorrowes  still  remaine 
"  15  But  there  they  Hue  in  such  delight 

Such  pleasure  and  such  play 
As  that  to  them  a  thousand  yeares 

Doth  seeme  as  yeaster  day 
*'  16  Thy  viniardes  and  thy  orchardes  are 

Most  beutifull  and  faire 
Full  furnished  with  tree  and  fruits 
Most  wonderfull  and  rare 

285 


Cbe  fearless  XanD. 


"  17  Thy  gardens  and  thy  gallant  walkes 

Continually  are  greene 

There  groes  such  sweete  and  pleasant  flowers 
As  noe  where  eles  are  scene 


"  18  There  is  nector  and  ambrosia  made 

There  is  muske  and  civette  sweete 
There  many  a  faire  and  daintie  drugge 
Are  troden  under  feete 


*'  ig  There  cinomen  there  sugar  groes 
There  narde  and  balme  abound 
What  tounge  can  tell  or  hart  conceue 

The  ioyes  that  there  are  founde 
"  20  Quyt  through  the  streetes  with  siluer  sound 

The  flood  of  life  doe  flowe 
Upon  whose  bankes  on  everie  syde 

The  wood  of  life  doth  growe 
"  21  There  trees  for  euermore  beare  fruite 

And  euermore  doe  springe 
There  euermore  the  Angels  sit 

And  euermore  doe  singe 
"  22  There  David  standes  with  harpe  in  hand 

As  master  of  the  Queere 
Tenne  thousand  times  that  man  were  blest 

That  might  this  musicke  hear 
"  23  Our  Ladie  singes  magnificat 

With  tune  surpassinge  sweete 
And  all  the  virginns  beare  their  parts 

Sittinge  aboue  her  feete 
"  24  Te  Deum  doth  Sant  Ambrose  singe 

Saint  Augustine  dothe  the  like 
Ould  Simeon  and  Zacharie 

Haue  not  their  songes  to  seeke 
"  25  There  Magdalene  hath  left  her  mone 

And  cheerfullie  doth  singe 
With  blessed  Saints  whose  harmonie 

In  everie  streete  doth  ringe 
"  26  Hierusalem  my  happie  home 
Would  god  I  were  in  thee 
Would  god  my  woes  were  at  an  end 
Thy  ioyes  that  I  might  see 
finis        finis" 

The  initials  "  F.  B.  P."  probably  stand  for  Francis  Baker,  Priest    Dr. 
Neale  quoted  Daniel  Sedgewick,  who  then  was  an  authority  in  such 

286 


JO 


Iftotes. 


matters,  as  attributing  the  poem  to  Francis  Baker  Porter,  but  Dr.  Neale 
evidently  misread  Pater  as  Porter,  an  easy  thing  to  do  in  handwriting. 
The  MS.  is  undated,  but  probably  is  to  be  assigned,  like  that  of  Prid's, 
to  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  century. 

Note  3.    "  Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  p.  78. 

This  exquisite  lyric  was  written,  as  Cardinal  Newman  himself  says, 
while  becalmed  for  a  week  in  the  Mediterranean  in  the  Straits  of  Boni- 
facio, between  Sardinia  and  Corsica.  At  the  time  he  had  not  gone  over 
to  Catholicism,  but  was  struggling  with  the  depression  caused  by  his 
conviction  that  the  Church  of  England  was  not  equal  to  the  correction 
of  the  evils  of  the  times.  He  believed  that  there  was  need  of  a  second 
Reformation.  In  broken  health  he  went  with  two  friends  to  the  south 
of  Europe.  He  fell  ill  of  a  fever  at  Leonforte,  on  the  island  of  Sicily, 
and  his  servant  thought  him  to  be  dying ;  but  he  declared  that  he  should 
get  well,  for  he  had  not  sinned  against  light.  At  Castro-Giovanni  he 
was  laid  up  for  nearly  three  weeks.  Towards  the  end  of  May,  1833,  he 
set  off  for  Palermo.  Before  starting  he  sat  down  upon  his  bed  and  be- 
gan to  sob  bitterly.  When  asked  by  his  servant  what  ailed  him,  he 
replied  that  he  had  a  work  to  do  in  England.  His  belief  that  he  had  a 
work,  his  impatience  to  get  to  it,  but  his  ignorance  of  what  it  was,  led 
him  to  breathe  forth  the  prayer  of  the  hymn,  which  has  been  adopted 
by  so  many  in  all  branches  of  the  Christian  Church.  The  date  of  the 
composition  is  fixed  by  himself  as  June,  1833. 

The  two  closing  lines  are  obscure,  and  a  number  of  interpretations 
have  been  put  upon  them.  When  appealed  to  for  their  meaning  the 
author  humorously  replied  that  after  almost  fifty  years  he  was  not  bound 
to  remember  what  he  did  have  in  mind !  He  has  distinguished  com- 
pany in  the  matter  of  forgetting  his  own  thought,  for  Coleridge  and 
Goethe  and  others  have  confessed  to  the  same  lapse  of  memory. 

Note  4.    "  The  Two  Angels,"  p.  95. 

In  a  letter  to  a  correspondent,  written  April  25,  1855,  Mr.  Longfellow 
says  :  "  I  have  only  time  this  morning  to  enclose  you  a  poem  which  per- 
haps you  have  not  seen,  as  it  is  not  in  any  volume.  It  was  written  on 
the  birth  of  my  younger  daughter  and  the  death  of  the  young  and 
beautiful  wife  of  my  neighbor  and  friend,  the  poet  Lowell.  It  will  serve 
as  an  answer  to  one  of  your  questions  about  life  and  its  many  mysteries. 
To  these  dark  problems  there  is  no  other  solution  possible,  except  the 
one  word  Providence"  The  poem  was  written  in  March,  1854,  and 
published  in  Putnam's  Magazine,  April,  1854. 

Note  5.    "  Nearer  Home,"  p.  123. 

This  poem,  the  author  says,  was  written  in  1882,  in  a  little  back  third- 

287 


fearless  XanD. 


story  bedroom  one  Sunday  morning  after  returning  from  church.  In  the 
year  before  her  death  she  wrote  of  it,  "  It  makes  me  happy  to  think 
that  any  word  I  could  say  has  done  a  little  good  in  the  world." 

Note  6.    "  Immanuel's  Land,"  p.  154'. 

The  refrain  of  this  poem  is  the  echo  of  the  dying  words  of  Rev. 
Samuel  Rutherford,  a  man  of  great  learning  and  talents,  who  lived 
1600-1661.  He  was  first  a  professor  in  the  University  of  Edinburgh, 
then  minister  of  the  parish  at  Anworth,  and  subsequently  professor  of 
theology  at  St.  Andrews.  His  deathbed  was  remarkable  for  its  triumph 
of  faith  and  trust.  Mr.  Fleming,  who  has  preserved  some  of  his  final 
utterances,  says  that  "  full  of  the  Spirit,  yea,  as  it  were,  overcome  with 
sensible  enjoyment,  he  breathed  out  his  soul,  his  last  words  being, 
'  Glory,  glory  dwelleth  in  Immanuel's  land.'  "  It  is  this  expression  of 
which  Mrs.  Cousin  has  made  such  happy  use  in  her  remarkable  poem. 

Note  7.    "  Blessed  are  the  Dead,"  p.  241. 

Published  in  the  "Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe."  See  Miiller's 
"  Bibliothek  deutscher  Dichter  des  siebzehnten  Jahrhunderts,"  vol.  v, 
p.  123. 

Note  8.    "  That  Holy  Sabbath  Day,"  p.  273. 

From  its  first  line  this  poem  is  known  as  "  O  quanta  qualia  sunt  ilia 
sabbata."  It  was  written  by  Peter  Abelard  about  1134,  when  he  was  the 
abbot  of  St.  Gildas.  It  has  been  said  that  in  the  main  his  hymns  are 
didactic  and  cold,  but  this  one  is  neither.  Few  poems  equal  it  in  devout 
fervor.  It  is  sufficient  in  itself  to  perpetuate  his  name,  and  to  soften 
somewhat  the  harsh  judgment  which  is  compelled  by  the  uglier  facts  of 
his  previous  life.  The  present  translation  was  made  by  Rev.  Samuel  W. 
Duffield  in  the  alcoves  of  the  Astor  Library,  New  York,  in  1883,  when 
he  was  making  an  examination  of  the  hymns  prepared  by  Abelard  for 
the  abbess  Heloise  and  her  nuns. 


Acknowledgment  is  herewith  made  to  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  for  permission, 
to  use  "  Two  Angels,  One  of  Life  and  One  of  Death,"  "  Into  the  Silent  Land," 
"  There  is  a  Reaper  Whose  Name  is  Death,"  "  O  how  blessed  are  ye  Whose 
Toils  are  ended,"  by  Henry  W.  Longfellow;  and  "  I  long  for  Household 
Voices  gone  "  and  "  I  feel  the  Unutterable  Longing,"  by  John  G.  Whittier. 
Also  to  Roberts  Brothers  for  the  privilege  of  incorporating  the  following  poems 
by  Susan  Coolidge:  "The  Last  Hour,"  "O  Dear  and  Friendly  Death," 
"  Through  the  Door." 


2SS 


<t-o> 


70 


Xi0t  of  Butbors, 


ABELARD,  PETER,  273. 

A  monk  of  the  twelfth  century,  abbot  of  St.  Gildas,  at  the  time  of 
writing  the  poem  quoted  from  him.  He  was  a  controversialist  and 
was  looked  upon  as  a  heretic.  The  blot  upon  his  record  is  his 
relations  with  Heloise,  who  became  the  abbess  of  Paraclee. 

ALFORD  (D.D.),  REV.  HENRY,  108. 

1810-1871.  Dean  of  Canterbury.  The  well-known  Biblical  scholar, 
whose  excellent  edition  (1841)  of  the  Greek  New  Testament  is  still 
in  use.  Author  of  a  volume  of  poems  (1835),  "  The  School  of  the 
Heart." 

ARNOLD,  EDWIN,  106. 

1832-.  Editor  in  chief  of  the  London  Telegraph.  Author  of  the 
poem,  "  The  Light  of  Asia."  Passed  a  portion  of  his  early  man- 
hood in  India,  where  he  was  principal  of  the  government  Sanscrit 
college  at  Poonah  in  the  Deccan. 

BAKER,  REV.  HENRY  WILLIAMS,  181. 

1821-1877.  Baronet ;  vicar  of  Monkland,  Hertfordshire,  England. 
Chairman  of  the  forty  clergymen  who  (1861)  prepared  "  Hymns, 
Ancient  and  Modern." 

BARING-GOULD,  REV.  SABINE,  168. 

1834-.  Rector  of  an  Episcopal  church  in  Lew-Trenchard,  Devon- 
shire, England.  His  works,  biographical,  historical,  sermonic,  and 
hymnal,  are  numerous.  "  Onward,  Christian  soldiers,"  is  from  his 
pen. 

BARTON,  BERNARD,  no. 

1784-1849.  Commonly  known  in  England  as  "  The  Quaker  Poet." 
Forty  years  a  clerk  in  Alexander's  Bank,  Woodbridge,  England. 

BERNARD  OF  CLUNY,  31. 

A  monk  in  the  Abbey  of  Cluny  during  the  time  of  Peter  the  Ven- 
erable (1122-1156),  the  General  of  the  Order  to  which  he  belonged. 
Born  at  Morlaix  in  Brittany  of  English  parents.  The  marvelous 
poem,  De  Contemptu  Mundi,  a  part  of  which,  as  translated  by  Dr. 
John  Mason  Neale.is  herein  published  under  the  title  "The  Celes- 
tial Country,"  is  the  only  one  of  his  productions  known. 


d>0> 


BETHUNE  (D.D.),  REV.  GEORGE  WASHINGTON,  109. 

1805-1862.  An  eminent  divine  of  the  Reformed  Dutch  Church  of 
America.  Died  suddenly  after  preaching  in  Florence,  Italy,  whither 
he  had  gone  for  his  health. 

BlCKERSTETH  (D.D.),   REV.  EDWARD  HENRY,  75,  212,  253. 

1825-.  Bishop  of  Exeter,  England.  Well  known  by  his  poem 
"  Yesterday,  To-day,  and  Forever."  His  contributions  to  hymnol- 
ogy  are  of  real  worth  and  importance. 

BONAR  (D.D.),  REV.  HORATIUS,  14,  22,  52,  68,  79,  94,  105,  in,  115, 

124,  128,  145,  149,  176, 182,  228. 

1808-1889.  Pastor  of  the  Grange,  or  Chalmer's  Memorial  Church, 
Edinburgh.  Author  of  many  of  our  sweetest  and  best  hymns.  His 
verses  are  remarkable  for  their  spirituality,  devotion,  and  true  poetic 
quality. 

BORTHWICK,  JANE,  87,  278. 

1813-.  A  Scottish  authoress,  residing  in  Edinburgh.  Colaborer 
with  her  sister,  Mrs.  Eric  Finladen,  in  translating  from  the  German, 
"  Hymns  from  the  Land  of  Luther." 

BOWLES,  CAROLINE  ANN,  120. 

1786-1854.    Became  the  wife  of  Robert  Southey,  the  poet,  in  1839. 

BRIDGES,  MATTHEW,  259. 

1800-.  Born  at  The  Friars,  Maiden,  Essex,  England.  Of  late 
years  a  resident  of  Canada  near  Quebec. 

BRIGHT,  J.  HUNTINGTON,  232. 

1804-1837.  Born  at  Salem  and  died  at  Manchester,  Mass.  A  con- 
tributor to  the  press  under  the  nom  deplume  of  "  Viator." 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT,  197, 199,  201, 233. 

1809-1861.  The  far-famed  poetess;  wife  of  the  poet,  Robert 
Browning. 

BULKLEY,  C.  H.  A.,  151. 

Compiler  of  "Plato's  Best  Thoughts"  (1883),  from  Professor 
Jowett's  translation  of  the  Dialogues  of  Plato. 

BULWER-LYTTON,  SIR  EDWARD,  67. 

1805-1873.    The  distinguished  English  novelist. 
GARY,  PHCEBE,  123. 

1825-1871.  The  older  of  the  two  well-known  Cary  sisters,  the  other 
of  whom  was  Alice.  They  were  born  in  the  Miami  Valley,  Ohio. 
In  1850  they  published  a  volume  of  poems  together  which  brought 
them  into  notice.  Thenceforward  they  labored  together  in  New 
York  City,  sustaining  themselves  by  literary  work  of  various  kinds, 
Alice,  who  was  chronically  ill,  died  first. 

290 


<±OL 


JO 


Xtet  of  Zlutbors, 


CAMERON,  REV.  CHARLES  INNES,  267. 

1837-1876?  Born  at  Kilmalie,  near  Fort  William,  Scotland;  re- 
moved to  Canada,  1858.  Missionary  to  India,  1865  ;  ill  health  com- 
pelled his  return  to  Canada  in  1875,  where  he  died  soon  after. 

CASWALL,  REV.  EDWARD,  19,  25. 

1814-1878.  Born  at  Yately,  Hampshire,  England.  Became  a 
Roman  Catholic  priest  at  Birmingham,  1850.  His  translations  of 
hymns  are  of  a  high  order. 

COBB  (D.D.),  REV.  HENRY  N.,  84. 

1834-.  Born  in  New  York  City.  Now  Corresponding  Secretary 
of  Board  of  Foreign  Missions  of  Reformed  Church  in  America, 
New  York. 

COOKE,  ROSE  TERRY,  236. 

1827-1892.  A  writer  of  great  originality  and  force,  especially  in  the 
New  England  dialect.  Author  also  of  a  volume  of  poems. 

COOLIDGE,  SUSAN.    See  Sarah  Chauncy  Woolsey. 

COUSIN,  MRS.  ANNE  R.,  154. 

Only  daughter  of  David  Ross  Cundell,  M.D.,  Leith,  Scotland, 
widow  of  Rev.  William  Cousin,  minister  of  the  Free  Church,  Mel- 
rose,  Scotland.  Contributor  of  poems  to  various  periodicals.  An 
edition  of  her  poems  was  published  in  1876,  with  the  title  "  Imman- 
uel's  Land,  and  other  Pieces." 

CREWDSON,  JANE  Fox,  73,  78. 

1809-1863.  Daughter  of  George  Fox,  of  Perran,  Cornwall  ;  wife 
of  Thomas  D.  Crewdson,  Manchester,  England. 

GROSSMAN,  SAMUEL,  16. 

1624-1683.    Prebendary  of  Bristol  Cathedral,  England. 

DEMAREST,  MARY  LEE,  60. 

1838-1888.  Born  in  New  York  City.  "  My  Ain  Countree  and 
Other  Verses  "  was  published  in  1883. 

DICKSON,  REV.  DAVID,  46. 

1583-1663.  Professor  of  divinity,  first  at  Glasgow  and  afterwards  at 
Edinburgh. 

DORR,  JULIA  CAROLINE  RIPLEY,  62. 

1825-.  Born  at  Charleston,  S.  C.,  but  for  the  most  part  has  resided 
in  Vermont.  Her  principal  literary  effort  has  been  in  the  line  of 
fiction,  but  she  has  published  two  volumes  of  poems. 

DUFFIELD,  REV.  SAMUEL  W.,  54,  273. 

1843-1887.  A  Presbyterian  minister,  remarkable  in  his  translations 
for  the  grace  and  aptness  of  his  versification.  Author  of  "  English 
Hymns  "  and  "  Latin  Hymns,"  with  critical  notes  and  biographical 


Hearless  XanO. 


EDMESTON,  JAMES,  217. 

1791-1867.  An  English  architect  and  surveyor.  Author  of  nearly 
two  thousand  hymns. 

ELLIOTT,  CHARLOTTE,  55, 57. 

1789-1871.  Born  at  Westfield  Lodge,  Brighton,  England.  Editor 
of  The  Christian  Remembrancer  Pocket-Book  for  twenty-five  years. 
A  constant  invalid  after  thirty-two  years  of  age.  Author  of  "  The 
Invalid's  Hymn  Book"  (1836),  in  which  appeared  the  hymn,  "Just 
as  I  am." 

FABER  (D.D.),  REV.  FREDERICK  WILLIAM,  48, 56,  89,  269. 

1814-1863.  A  Roman  Catholic ;  founder  of  a  brotherhood  in  Lon- 
don. The  complete  edition  of  his  hymns,  many  of  which  are  of 
great  beauty,  contains  about  two  hundred  and  fifty. 

FARNINGHAM,  MARIANNE,  76,  214, 251, 252. 

1834-.  Pseudonym  of  Mary  Anne  Hearne.  Born  at  Farningham, 
Kent,  England,  whence  her  nom  de  plume.  Author  of  "  Lays  and 
Lyrics  of  the  Blessed  Life,"  etc.  Editorially  connected  with  The 
Christian  World  and  The  Sunday-School  Times. 

FYSH,  FREDERICK,  250. 

An  English  writer.  Author  of  "  A  Lyrical  Version  of  the  Psalms," 
and  various  theological  works. 

GANNETT,  REV.  WILLIAM  C.,  203. 

1840-.  Boston.  A  contributor  to  magazines  and  periodicals,  and 
author  of  some  very  fine  hymns  and  poems. 

GAUDENZ  VON  SALIS,  JOHANN,  150. 

1762-1834.  Born  at  Seewis,  Germany,  and  died  at  Malans.  For  a 
time  was  captain  of  the  Swiss  Guard  at  Versailles.  Was  a  friend 
of  Goethe,  Schiller,  Herder,  and  Wieland. 

GILL,  THOMAS  H.,  65, 170. 

1819-.  An  English  layman,  living  near  London.  Author  of 
nearly  two  hundred  hymns. 

GRANT,  SIR  ROBERT,  262. 

1785-1838.  A  Scotch-English  barrister  of  wide  reputation.  A 
member  of  Parliament ;  finally  governor  of  Bombay,  India,  where 
he  died. 

HAWEIS,  REV.  H.  R.,  23. 

1838-.  Perpetual  Curate  of  St.  James,  Marylebone,  England, 
since  1866.  Editor  of  Cassell's  Magazine,  1868. 

HEUSSER-SCHWEIZER,  MRS.  META,  278. 

1797-1876.  Born  and  lived  in  the  village  of  Hirzel,  canton  Zurich, 
Switzerland.  Declared  to  be  the  most  gifted  of  Germany's  female 
poets. 

292 


- 


Xfst  of  Butbots, 


HOGG,  JAMES,  104. 

1770  or  1772-1835.  Best  known  as  "  The  Ettrick  Shepherd."  An 
edition  of  his  poetical  works  was  published  in  1822. 

HOSMER,  REV.  FREDERICK  L.,  200. 
Unitarian  minister,  Cleveland,  Ohio. 

HOWITT,  MARY,  98. 

1804-.   A  popular  English  authoress  of  numerous  instructive  books. 

HUNTER  (D.D.),  REV.  WILLIAM,  183. 

1811-1877.  Born  in  Ireland ;  removed  to  America  in  1830.  In  this 
country  was  editor  of  some  Methodist  publications,  then  professor 
of  Hebrew  in  Alleghany  College;  finally  a  Methodist  minister  at 
Alliance,  Ohio. 

HUNTINGTON  (D.D.),  REV.  FREDERICK  D.,  245. 

1819-.  Episcopal  bishop  of  Central  New  York.  A  well-known 
writer  on  current  religious  themes. 

INGELOW,  JEAN,  187. 

1830-.  Born  at  Boston,  England.  A  poetess  popular  on  both 
sides  of  the  ocean. 

IVES,  ELLA  GILBERT,  24. 

Principal  of  a  young  ladies'  preparatory  school,  Boston. 

JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT,  205,  207. 

1831-1885.  Daughter  of  Professor  N.  W.  Fiske,  of  Amherst. 
Long  known  as  a  writer  only  by  her  initials  "  H.  H.,"  which  ap- 
peared also  in  connection  with 'her  verses,  issued  in  1871.  Author 
of  "A  Century  of  Dishonor,"  etc. 

JOSEPH  OF  THE  STUDIUM,  186. 

A  Sicilian  of  the  ninth  century ;  an  exile  to  Thessalonica  in  830 ; 
captured  by  sea  pirates,  and  sold  by  them  as  a  slave  on  the  island 
of  Crete,  where  he  was  held  for  several  years,  etc.  It  is  question- 
able whether  the  things  which  bear  his  name  have  not  been  mate- 
rially altered  and  bettered  by  their  translators. 

LAIGHTON,  ALBERT,  an. 

1829-1887.  Born  at  Portsmouth,  N.  H.  A  volume  of  his  poems 
was  published  in  1878. 

LANGE  (D.D.),  REV.  JOHANN  PETER,  216. 

1802-1884.  At  Zurich,  professor  of  Church  History  and  Dog- 
matics ;  at  Bonn,  professor  of  Systematic  Theology.  Best  known 
as  a  theologian.  Though  a  thinker  rather  than  a  poet,  he  attained 
prominence  as  a  hymn  writer  in  the  German  Reformed  Church. 

LARCOM,  LUCY,  20,  219. 

1826-.  Born  at  Beverly  Farms,  Mass.  A  favorite  poet;  at  one 
time  associate  editor  of  "  Our  Young  Folks." 

293 


LITTLEWOOD,  REV.  W.  E.,  242. 

1812  ?-i88i.  Vicar  of  St.  James,  Bath,  England.  An  acceptable 
writer  on  church  history  and  practical  matters. 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH,  95, 150,  210,  241. 

1807-1882.  A  poet  so  widely  known  that  no  itemized  reference  is 
necessary. 

LYTE,  REV.  HENRY  FRANCIS,  80. 

1793-1847.  Perpetual  Curate  of  Lower  Brixham,  Devon,  Eng- 
land. In  addition  to  his  own  hymns,  which  are  quite  popular,  he 
published  (1846)  the  poems  of  Henry  Vaughan. 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE,  229. 

1824-.  An  Episcopalian  clergyman  of  London,  England,  and 
also  novelist  and  poet.  Four  volumes  of  his  poems  have  been 
published,  1855, 1857, 1864,  1868. 

MACKELLAR,  THOMAS,  93. 

1812-.  A  typefounder,  Philadelphia;  elder  in  a  Presbyterian 
church. 

MANX,  BISHOP  RICHARD,  184. 

1776-1848.  A  writer  of  both  prose  and  poetry ;  chiefly  known  by 
his  translations  from  the  Latin. 

MASSEY,  GERALD,  13, 185. 

1828-.  An  English  poet,  born  in  Hertfordshire.  Published 
"  Poems  and  Chansons,"  in  1847 ;  "  The  Ballad  of  Babe  Christabel," 
in  1853 ;  "  A  Tale  of  Eternity,"  in  1870,  etc. 

MEYER,  MRS.  LUCY  J.  RIDER,  29. 

Principal  of  the  M.  E.  Training  School  for  Home  and  Foreign 
Missions,  Chicago. 

MILLS,  MRS.  ELIZABETH,  58. 

1805-1829.  Born  at  Stoke  Newington,  England ;  died  at  Finsbury 
Place,  London. 

MITCHELL,  WILLIAM,  275. 

MONSELL  (LL.D.),  REV.  J.  S.  B.,  165,  260. 

1811-1875.  Rector  in  Guildford,  England.  Born  in  Londonderry, 
Ireland.  Author  of  "  Hymns  of  Love  and  Praise,"  and  of  "  Spir- 
itual Songs."  His  hymns  are  exceptionally  fine. 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES,  100, 117,  222,  271. 

1771-1854.  Sheffield,  England.  Editor  and  poet.  Sometimes 
called,  rather  extravagantly,  "  The  Cowper  of  the  Nineteenth  Cen- 
tury." An  adherent  of  the  Moravian  Church. 

MUHLENBERG   (D.D.),  WILLIAM  A.,  263. 

1796-1877.  An  Episcopal  rector,  New  York.  Author  of  "  I  would 
not  live  alway,"  etc. 

294 


<u>. 


NAIRNE  (BARONESS),  LADY  CAROLINA,  28, 103. 

1766-1845.  Third  daughter  of  Lawrence  Olyphant,  county  of 
Perth,  Scotland ;  wife  of  Captain  Murray  Nairne,  afterwards  Lord 
Nairne.  Called  "  The  Flower  of  Strathearn." 

NEALE  (D.D.),  REV.  JOHN  MASON,  31, 133, 186. 

1818-1866.  Minister  in  the  Church  of  England,  Warden  of  Sack- 
ville  College,  East  Grimstead,  founder  of  the  Sisterhood  of  St. 
Margaret,  etc.  Best  known  as  a  translator  of  mediaeval  hymns. 

NEWMAN  (D.D.),  JOHN  HENRY,  78. 

1801-1890.  At  first  an  English  Episcopalian ;  afterwards  a  Roman 
Catholic  cardinal,  Birmingham. 

NEVIN  (D.D.),  REV.  EDWIN  HENRY,  254. 

1814-.  A  retired  Presbyterian  minister,  Philadelphia.  Composer 
of  poems  and  hymns  of  recognized  merit. 

NEWTON,  REV.  JOHN,  167. 

1725-1807.  Rector  of  St.  Mary-Woolworth,  London.  His  services 
as  a  hymn-writer  have  been  of  great  value. 

PARMLEE,  MRS.  HELEN  M.,  264. 

Died  at  Albany,  N.  Y.,  1864.  Author  of  "  Poems,  Religious  and 
Miscellaneous,"  published  in  1865. 

PRIEST,  NANCY  A.  W.    See  Wakefield. 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE,  70. 

1825-1864.  Born  in  Belford  Square,  London.  Author  of  "  Leg- 
ends and  Lyrics,"  etc. 

RAFFLES  (D.D.,  LL.D.),  REV.  THOMAS,  174,247. 

1788-1863.  For  fifty  years  one  of  the  most  prominent  Congrega- 
tional ministers  of  England.  Pastor  of  the  Great  George  Street 
Congregational  Church,  Liverpool. 

RHEES,  R.  A.,  243. 

RYAN,  REV.  ABRAM  JOSEPH,  99. 

1839-1886.  Born  at  Norfolk,  Va.  A  Roman  Catholic  priest ;  chap- 
lain in  the  Confederate  army  during  the  war. 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  G.,  65, 144. 

1830-.  An  English  poetess;  author  of  "Goblin  Market,"  "The 
Prince's  Progress,"  "  A  Pageant  and  Other  Poems,"  etc. 

SACHSE  (D.D.),  CHRISTIAN  FRIEDRICH  HEINRICH,  97. 

1785-1860.  Through  his  hymns  he  did  much  to  stimulate  Christian 
life  among  the  Lutherans. 

SAWYER,  MRS.  C.  M.,  47. 

1812-.  Editor  of  "  Ladies'  Repository  "  in  1861.  Has  published 
several  religious  works  and  made  a  number  of  translations  from 
the  German  and  French. 

295 


SCHILLER,  JOHANN  CHRISTOPH  FRIEDRICH  VON,  67. 
1759-1805.    The  great  national  poet  of  Germany. 

SMITH,  CHARITIE  LEES,  53. 

1841-.  Born  at  Bloomfield,  Merrion,  county  of  Dublin,  Ireland. 
Now  wife  of  Mr.  Arthur  E.  Bancroft. 

SMITH,  MAY  LOUISE  RILEY,  137,  208,  275. 

1842-.  Born  at  Rochester,  N.  Y.  A  frequent  contributor  to  peri- 
odicals. A  collection  of  her  poems,  under  the  title  "  Fringed  Gen- 
tians," was  published  in  1882. 

SPENSER,  EDMUND,  266. 

1552-1599.    A  disciple  of  Chaucer,  whose  style  he  imitated. 

ST.  TERESA  OF  SPAIN,  25. 

1SIS-IS82.  Considered  one  of  the  greatest  saints  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church.  Born  at  Avila  in  Castile.  At  twenty  devoted 
herself  to  the  conventual  life. 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE,  147. 

1833-.  An  editor,  critic,  contributor  to  current  literature,  and  poet 
of  high  rank. 

STENNETT  (D.D.),  REV.  SAMUEL,  27. 

1727-1795.  An  eminent  scholar;  pastor  of  the  Baptist  church  in 
Little  Wild  Street,  London,  for  thirty-seven  years. 

STODDARD,  WILLIAM  O.,  74. 

1835-.  Private  secretary  to  President  Lincoln,  1861-1864;  since 
then  a  journalist ;  author  of  a  number  of  books  for  the  young. 

STOWE,  MRS.  HARRIET  BEECHER,  126. 

1812-1896.    The  famous  author  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  etc. 

TAPPAN,  REV.  WILLIAM  BINGHAM,  231. 

1794-1849.  A  Congregational  minister  long  in  the  employ  of  the 
American  Sunday-School  Union. 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED,  132. 

1809-1892.  Successor  of  Wordsworth  as  poet  laureate  of  England ; 
the  world's  poet  as  well. 

UHLAND  (LL.D.),  JOHANN  LUDWIG,  30. 

1787-1862.  A  celebrated  German  lyric  poet.  Born  and  died  at 
Tubingen.  His  collection  of  patriotic  songs  published  in  1815  was 
very  popular. 

VAUGHAN,  HENRY,  268. 

1621-1695.  A  physician  practicing  at  Brecon  and  Newton,  Eng- 
land. Sometimes  termed  "  The  Silurist."  After  a  lapse  of  nearly 
two  centuries  his  poems  and  hymns  are  coming  into  deserved 
favor. 


1 


WAKEFIELD,  MRS.  NANCY  A.  W.  PRIEST,  143, 195. 

1836-1870.  Born  in  Royalston,  Vt.  The  poem  "  Over  the  River 
they  Beckon  to  Me  "  was  written  when  she  was  but  nineteen. 

WATTS  (D.D.),  REV.  ISAAC,  153. 

1674-1748.  The  famous  preacher;  an  English  Congregationalist, 
whose  hymns  are  used  the  world  over.  "The  father  of  English 
hymnody." 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF,  196,  218. 

1807-1892.  The  Quaker  poet  of  America.  Lived  at  Amesbury, 
Mass. ;  died  at  Hampton  Falls,  N.  H. 

WILLIAMS,  REV.  ISAAC,  246. 

1802-1865.    A  "Welsh  Methodist  preacher. 

WOOLSEY,  SARAH  CHAUNCY,  71, 101, 113. 

Born  about  1845.  Niece  of  President  Woolsey.  Resides  at  New- 
port, R.  I.  Is  best  known  under  her  pseudonym  of  "  Susan  Cool- 
idge."  Is  a  contributor  to  romance,  history,  and  poetry,  and  is  the 
author  of  some  charming  books  for  the  young. 

ZINZENDORF,  NlCOLAUS  LUDWIG,  COUNT  VON,  87. 

1700-1760.  Bishop  of  the  Moravian  Brethren's  Unity  at  Berlin. 
His  hymns  number  two  thousand. 


fln&ei  of  3fir0t  Xine0. 


A  home  in  heaven !  what  a  joyful  thought 183 

A  song  of  a  boat 187 

All  along  the  mighty  ages 82 

Alone!  to  land  alone  upon  that  shore 269 

And  if  some  friend  we  love  is  lying  low 137 

And,  O  beloved  voices,  upon  which 197 

Angel  voices  sweetly  singing 255 

As  tender  mothers  guiding  baby  steps  . 205 

Ascend,  beloved,  to  the  joy in 

Bathed  in  unfallen  sunlight 176 

Be  the  pathway  smooth  or  thorny 75 

Beyond  the  hills  where  suns  go  down 52 

Beyond  the  smiling  and  the  weeping 22 

Beyond  the  stars  that  shine  in  golden  glory 130 

Beyond  these  chilling  winds  and  gloomy  skies 143 

Bright  sun !  thou  dost  blessedly  shine 170 

Cheerful,  O  Lord,  at  thy  command 88 

Clear  in  memory's  silent  reaches 203 

Come  forth !  come  on,  with  solemn  song 97 

Come  to  the  land  of  peace 221 

Could  we  but  know 147 

Courage,  O  faithful  heart 242 

Crown  Him  with  many  crowns 259 

Daily,  daily  sing  the  praises 168 

Does  the  road  wind  uphill  all  the  way 65 

Dropping  down  the  troubled  river 128 

Far  from  the  discord  loud 76 

"  Forever  with  the  Lord  " 117 

Friend,  after  friend,  departs 222 

From  out  this  dim  and  gloomy  hollow 67 

Glorious  things  of  thee  are  spoken 167 

"God  lent  him  and  takes  him,  "you  sigh 199 

0  Good-by,  till  morning  come  again  " 222 

Hark  I  hark !  my  soul,  angelic  songs  are  swelling 89 

299 


i 


tlbe  fearless  3LanD. 


He  who  died  at  Azan  sends 106 

He  will  come  perhaps  at  morning 136 

High  in  yonder  realms  of  light 174 

His  scepter  is  the  rod  of  Righteousnesse 266 

Homesick  for  heaven !  winged  soul 24 

Hush !  blessed  are  the  dead 253 

I  am  pressing  on  to  the  slippery  shore 214 

I  am  wandering  down  life's  shady  path 68 

built  my  nest  by  a  pleasant  stream 185 

cannot  think  of  them  as  dead 200 

classed,  appraising  once 201 

do  not  ask,  O  Lord,  that  life  may  be 70 

feel  the  unutterable  longing 218 

know  not  where,  beneath,  above 198 

know  the  walls  are  jasper 264 

long  for  household  voices  gone 196 

'm  far  frae  my  hame,  an'  I  'in  weary  aftenwhiles 60 

'm  kneeling  at  the  threshold,  weary,  faint  and  sore 50 

'm  returning,  not  departing 94 

'm  wearin' awa',  John 103 

If  I  were  told  that  I  must  die  to-morrow 71 

Into  the  Silent  Land 150 

It  is  not  death  to  die 109 

It  lies  around  us  like  a  cloud 126 

It 's  a  bonnie,  bonnie  warl'  that  we  're  livin'  in  the  noo 275 

Jerusalem  the  golden 13 

Jerusalem,  the  holy 165 

Jerusalem,  my  happy  home 59 

Jesus,  still  lead  on 87 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom 78 

Let  me  be  with  Thee  where  thou  art 57 

Let  me  go,  the  day  is  breaking 100 

Lord  of  earth !  thy  bounteous  hand 262 

Lord !  leadeth  not  this  desert  land 65 

Mid  the  pastures  green  of  the  blessed  isle 212 

Mother,  I  see  you  with  your  nursery  light 207 

My  bark  is  wafted  on  the  strand 130 

My  God,  it  is  not  fretfulness 14 

My  Homeland,  O  my  Homeland 23 

My  rest  is  in  heaven,  my  rest  is  not  here So 

My  soul,  there  is  a  countrie 268 

"  No  graves  are  there  " 243 

300 


f  nfcei  of  3fir0t  Elites, 


No  joy  is  true,  save  that  which  hath  no  end 145 

No  night  shall  be  in  heaven,  —  no  gathering  gloom 247 

No  shadows  gather 251 

No  sickness  there 248 

No  tossing  of  the  burning  head 252 

Not  from  Jerusalem  alone 124 

Not  here!  not  here!  not  where  the  sparkling  waters 81 

Not  in  this  weary  world  of  ours 227 

Not  long !  not  long !  the  spirit-wasting  fever 105 

Not  weary  of  thy  world 20 

O  angel  of  the  land  of  peace 47 

O  birds  from  out  the  east,  O  birds  from  out  the  west 172 

O  dear  and  friendly  Death 101 

O  heavenly  Jerusalem 246 

O  heaven !  sweet  heaven !  the  home  of  the  blest 254 

O  Homeland!     O  Homeland! 29 

O  land  relieved  from  sorrow 54 

O  mother  dear,  Jerusalem 46 

O  Paradise!    O  Paradise! 56 

O  spirit,  freed  from  bondage 98 

O  sweet  home-echo  on  the  pilgrim's  way 278 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 233 

Oh,  fair  the  gleams  of  glory 267 

Oh,  for  the  peace  which  floweth  as  a  river 73 

Oh,  for  the  robes  of  whiteness 53 

Oh,  how  blest  are  ye  whose  toils  are  ended 241 

Oh,  what  shall  be,  oh,  when  shall  be 273 

On  Jordan's  stormy  banks  I  stand 27 

On  the  fount  of  life  eternal 19 

Once  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  flowers 144 

One  sweetly  solemn  thought 123 

One  year  among  the  angels,  beloved,  thou  hast  been 219 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 138 

Our  beloved  have  departed 216 

Ours  is  the  grief,  who  still  are  left  in  this  far  wilderness 212 

Out  of  the  shadows  of  sadness 99 

Over  the  river  on  the  hill 236 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me 195 

Palms  of  glory,  raiment  bright 271 

Rest  for  the  toiling  hand 228 

Safe  home !  safe  home  in  port ! 186 

Say,  why  should  friendship  grieve  for  those 204 

301 


£>o> 


TO 


£bc  fearless  XatO. 


Should  sorrow  o'er  thy  brow 232 

Since  o'er  thy  footstool  here  below 263 

Sing  with  me,  sing  with  me 104 

Slowly,  with  measured  tread 120 

"  Soon  and  forever  " 260 

Sunset  and  evening  star 132 

Surely  yon  heaven,  where  angels  see  God's  face 149 

Sweet  place,  sweet  place  alone 16 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand 108 

Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  sung 272 

That  clime  is  not  like  this  dull  clime  of  ours 146 

The  angel  opened  the  door 113 

The  foe  behind,  the  deep  before 133 

The  happy  winds  are  all  astir .  206 

The  hour,  the  hour,  the  parting  hour 127 

The  Land  beyond  the  Sea 48 

The  life  above,  the  life  on  high 25 

The  light  fades  out  of  calmed  sea 237 

The  sands  of  time  are  sinking 154 

The  star  is  not  extinguished  when  it  sets 115 

The  toil  is  very  long,  and  I  am  tired 74 

The  way  is  dark,  my  Father !    Cloud  upon  cloud 84 

The  world  is  very  evil  .    .    .    ; 31 

There  are  refreshments  sweeter  far  than  sleep 55 

There  is  a  blessed  home 181 

There  is  a  dwelling  place  above 184 

There  is  a  land  immortal 93 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight 153 

There  is  a  land  where  beauty  cannot  fade 30 

There  is  a  reaper  whose  name  is  Death 210 

There  is  an  hour  of  peaceful  rest 231 

There  is  no  night  in  heaven 245 

There 's  a  Beautiful  Land  by  the  Spoiler  untrod 159 

This  world  is  bright  and  fair,  we  know 211 

Thou  knowest,  O  my  Father !    Why  should  I 62 

"  Till  Death  us  part " 215 

'T  is  but  one  family,  — the  sound  is  balm 217 

'T  is  first  the  true,  and  then  the  beautiful 79 

'T  is  not  a  Silent  Land IS1 

Two  angels,  one  of  Life  and  one  of  Death 95 

Upon  the  hills  the  wind  is  sharp  and  cold 83 

Upward,  where  the  stars  are  burning 

302 


J 


182 


UnOex  of  ffirst  Tiines. 


We  journey  through  a  vale  of  tears no 

We  speak  of  the  realms  of  the  blest 58 

What  then?    Why  then  another  pilgrim  song 78 

When  the  crickets  chirp  in  the  evening  .    .    , 208 

When  the  death-dews  dim  my  eyes 134 

When  round  the  earth  the  Father's  hands 229 

When  I  shall  go  where  my  Redeemer  is 275 

When  tempests  toss,  and  billows  roll 250 

Where  dost  thou  lie,  O  Land  of  Peace 51 

Where  the  faded  flower  shall  freshen 193 

Would  you  be  young  again 28 


303 


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